Roll Me Away
by Willow Edmond
Summary: He's 21 and his father died. But he's been left with a mission to deliver something to a wrestler at the WWE. His father had his reasons and he's determined to follow this last request. And, he's going to find out filling their father's last wish is going to open up doors, maybe for both of them.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's** **Note: **This is... well, it's not a typical wrestling fanfiction story. Mostly because the wrestlers don't come in until the very end. But there is this person in my head that you'll meet, and he's been trying to talk for a long time. If this is not your thing, I understand. But if it is, I hope you enjoy it. There are other notes at the end.

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**Roll Me Away**

{o}-{o}-{o}

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My dad died two weeks after my 21st birthday, which told me that as usual, Dad got his own way. In fact, as far as I know, in the big things in life, there was only one time he didn't get his way, but I'll get to that later.

He didn't want to die on my 21st birthday. He also didn't want to die the day before or after. He never _said_ that, but towards the end, when I was administering his "pain medication" he said several times that he was pretty sure our big plans for my 21st birthday weren't going to happen and that he was hoping he didn't ruin the day. I think he forced himself to stay alive for two weeks after my birthday, just so I wouldn't hook the two of them together. Which, of course means I always will.

Per his wishes, there was no funeral, memorial or otherwise. Despite dying of cancer, he managed to be fairly debt free, especially after I sold two of the motorcycles he built. No, my dad wasn't some Indian Larry, or Jesse James, but he could build great bikes. You just had to know him to get one, or at least that was the way it worked when he was alive. There were four custom motorcycles in the outbuilding/garage he used for building. One he had made for my mother, who I believe used it once before she left him. I was about ten back then, and I think Dad built it for her in a last ditch effort to save a dying marriage. It was a beautiful bike, the gas tank meticulously painted with several shades of blue paint, from a true, ocean blue, to a baby blue so light it was almost white. My father had put his heart and soul into that bike and he never sold it, even after Mom said she wanted nothing to do with it, that he could keep it. Even though I was young, I was Dad's helper, so I had a good idea how hard he'd worked on that bike.

Losing Mom had hurt a lot, but I think her not even wanting that bike hurt more.

The other bike was one he designed and built for the fuck of it, as he put it. He had just started his first round of chemo, and I think he understood this might be his last chance. It was a classic '70s chopper, right to the ape hanger handlebars, the high sissy bar in the back, and the elongated fork for the front wheel. It even had a vintage Harley shovelhead engine Dad and I took apart and rebuilt it. When it came to painting it, we both agreed, black with those classic, curvy, "Flames" in orange and yellow. It was a beautiful bike that looked like it had managed to roll off the showroom floor and right into the next century. I was so glad when one of Dad's friends bought it, because I knew Dad would appreciate his friend having it, and it was out of my sight. I had helped Dad with the build, and we'd enjoyed ourselves, but I wasn't stupid, I knew it would be his last bike. I didn't want the reminder.

Between the two bikes, I got enough money to pay off the expenses my father left behind. He was on medicare, which helped, and his biker friends had several fundraisers to help us out. I did offer to sell the bikes and give them the money for their trouble, but they were dead set against that. The house was already in my name, Dad did that when I turned eighteen. It was located in the center of nowhere, an area where dirt roads were king, but you could hear the freight trains rolling across the country several times a day. Sure, we had a couple acres of dirt so packed down and dead that even crabgrass refused to grow in it. It was the sort of place that would only appeal to a meth maker, but at least the taxes were cheap. He left me everything in the house, which wasn't much, and a few thousand dollars.

He also left me with a bunch of papers, neatly stored in one of those plastic portable file holders, and a mission.

I knew what was in the file holder, even if I hadn't read the papers. Dad and I had discussed it a lot before he started getting so sick that all he could do was stare at the ceiling and all I could do was hold his hand and "medicate" him.

"Why did you want to wait until you're dead before you tell him?" I'd asked.

"Because I don't want him to think he owes me anything," Dad said. "I was never part of his life."

"But he's got a right to know who you are!" I'd protested. And Dad just gave me one of his "I-know-better-than-you-do" smiles.

"I'm not at my best right now, Creed," he said. "Now is not the time to meet me. Besides, if he wants to get to know more about me, he can talk to you, you probably know me better than anyone else." The knowing smile changed to a genuine grin. "You can tell him what an asshole I was."

"All I have to do is tell him my full name and he'll know you were an asshole," I shot back. "Who names a kid Creedence?

"A man whose second favorite band is Creedence Clearwater Revival," he said, still grinning. His eyes were starting to get that hard glint they got whenever the pain started setting in. "Just be lucky I didn't name you after my _most_ favorite."

"Bob isn't a bad name," I shrugged. We were in the living room, I was sitting in the chair he always sat in until he started getting sick. Now I sat in the chair and he lay on the sofa I used to always sit on. "Do you need some med?" I opened the drawer in the side table that separated us, ready to grab his works.

"I wouldn't have named you something as mundane as Bob," Dad countered. "I'd have named you Silver." He shook his head to the med offer. "I don't like you doing this for me."

"I don't recall asking you," I retorted. His "medicine" was a sore spot for both of us. Even though he was dying, thanks to tougher laws about opiates, his doctors refused to give him all the pain meds he needed. It probably didn't help that he was a recovering junkie. When the pain started getting really bad, and the stupid pills they gave him didn't even make a dent in the pain he was feeling, I called up a couple of his friends, also former junkies. They weren't using, but they still knew how to score. Yeah, I turned my father back into a practicing junkie, and I own that, but the mass hysteria about opiates needs to take its share of the blame. My dad was dying and he was in massive pain, and I'd do it again if I could. Maybe there is an addiction problem, but I think when you're dying and nothing is going to save you? Anything and everything that can stop the pain should be allowed.

"I just hope you're being really careful. I just don't want you going to jail."

"I _am_ careful," I said. And to get off the subject of drugs, I said, "So, thanks for dumping this on me."

My words were harsh, but my Dad knew me well enough to know that I wasn't really griping about having to carry out his mission. I was griping about him dying, but social protocol dictated it just wasn't right to bitch to the dying man about how pissed off you were that he was dying.

I often wish cancer was a guy, so I could kick him in the nuts, just so he'd understand how dirty he fights.

.

It took two months after Dad died to straighten things out enough so I could do his final mission. I sold the bikes, paid off his medical bills, donated his body to science, per his wishes. Everything he had was left to me, but I still called my mom and my sister to see if they wanted any input. Mom was polite, but not friendly, then again, Mom and I haven't been friendly since I left her to live with Dad. She thought of it as "abandoning" her. I thought of it as going some place where I could accidentally leave the toilet seat up and not get screamed at for twenty minutes about how I was an inconsiderate jackass, "just like my father." Apparently, my sister didn't pick up any of Dad's nasty habits because she and our mom got along just fine.

I probably could have gone sooner, but I had to wait until the WWE was having a show in Nevada. I was hoping for Las Vegas, but I had to settle for Reno, which meant I had to spend some of the money Dad left me to do this, before I got to put one mile behind me. That was okay. He'd stashed a big enough chunk of cash that it wasn't a problem, so I still had plenty to make the trip.

The day before I took a ride on my bike, the bike my dad and I had built together when I was sixteen going on seventeen. Dad was with me and showed me everything, but he let me do all the work possible. It might be my favorite thing in the world, now that Dad was gone. She's a bobber, no front fender, hardly any back one either. Started with a Sportster Dad found cheap because it was an MCB50, and the guy had taken a spill on it, and his wife decided he wasn't going to ride anymore. He'd still kept it for another fifteen years, never using it, and my father had joked that he probably kept it in case the wife died. But, then they decided to move to Florida, and his wife just made him unload it fast and cheap. I don't know if MCB is a real term or just one my father and his friends came up with. It stands for Midlife Crisis Bike, usually bought by someone who never rode their entire life, or hadn't ridden since they were in their late teens to early '20s. The number just indicates about what decade the person was in when they bought it. Technically, we could have called my Sportster a MCB53, but usually it's just easier to narrow them down by the decade. When we were done cutting the excess off of it, getting a smaller tank, and switching the double seat out for a single mustang saddle, we painted it with pure root beer flake. No special designs, just that one color. My dad's friends teased me about the plain jane paint job, but I didn't care.

I rode down to the Spirited Heron, the bar my mother owned. It was the bar where she and my dad met, shortly after he got let go from the trucking company he worked for, because trucking companies have a tendency to frown on heroin users driving trucks. He'd gone clean, but nobody was going to risk him. Smart of them, since he and heroin would have an on-again off-again relationship until I was thirteen. He got clean for me, because he knew Mom would never tolerate him being a junkie and having custody of me, even if I _am_ a vicious animal who does vile things like leave the seat up. He stayed clean too, until the pain from the cancer began to get stronger than the weak painkillers they gave him and _I_ decided it was time for him to become a junkie again.

The Spirited Heron had been her parent's bar, and before that, her grandparents. Mom inherited it when her mother had died, which made sense since Mom had pretty much run the place since my grandparents got to be in their 60s. She had a few bartenders who worked there part time, but it was a rare night when you didn't see my mother there right at six at night and if you felt like staying until the last dog was hung, she'd leave about three in the morning.

I got there at about two in the afternoon, when I knew my sister would be there, and hopefully my mom wouldn't. It's a dive bar, far enough outside of town that my parents bought that house in the middle of nowhere so my mom wouldn't have a long commute. Sure, she inherited her parents house when my grandmother died, which was the only reason why she didn't fight dad for his house. She got to live in a lovely four bedroom, 2.5 bathroom, split level ranch in a decent neighborhood, but she had three times the commute to get to work. So did my sister, who still lived with her.

I parked my bike in the spot right next to the handicapped spot. It was a hot day, so I grabbed a piece of wood that was leaning against the building, and stuck it under my kickstand. There were several pieces of wood put there for just that purpose, a few were already in use by other bikers, deciding to get a head start on a long night of drinking. Hey, it's always five o'clock somewhere in the world, right?

I walked inside, the smell of cigarette smoke and stale beer hitting me, reminding me of our living room back in the days when Dad had parties. Yeah, there were laws against smoking in bars and restaurants, but unless my mom or sister were on a tear, people smoked in there anyway. The only thing the laws seemed to do was make my mother get rid of all the ashtrays, so people used table tops, glasses, and the floor to put out their smokes.

There were a group of bikers in the side area where the pool tables were, and a few of them were my father's friends so I waved. "Creed, wanna play?" one of them called out.

"Nah," I said, knowing if I went over, I'd get caught in the "I'm sorry to hear about your dad" game, and being plied with drinks, because I'm now legal. Instead I headed over to the bar where my sister was wiping glasses. "Hey Janis." Yes, my sister was named after Janis Joplin. Apparently, for all they disagreed on, my parents agreed that naming children after favorite bands or singers was a good idea. That might have been the only thing my parents did agree on. Yeah, okay, there was a time when my parents were young and in love, but by the time I came along and could remember more than just to breathe, eat, and shit my diapers, they were barely going through the motions.

"Creed," she said, still polishing glasses, "What brings you here?"

No "hi," no, "how are you?" My sister and I don't hate each other. We probably even love each other, in that way that siblings always seem to do, even if they can't stand each other. Janis and my big problem is that we're divided on the Mom and Dad camp. She was happy to leave Dad when Mom did, I had to be dragged out of the house. She felt I betrayed Mom when I went to live with Dad. I felt she abandoned dad when she moved out with Mom, because she rarely bothered to see him, even when he got cancer, even when we knew it was a matter of weeks, she visited him once and pretended he wasn't dying. Dad wanted to discuss things with her, serious shit, but she wouldn't hear it. She acted like Dad had a bad cold and would bounce back any second, and as soon as she could, she blew out of there.

"I've got a trip to make," I said. If she wanted me to get to the point, I would. Sooner I was done, the sooner I was out of there. "I need a couple of favors from you."

"Gee, and here I thought you might be looking for a job," she said, shaking her head. That's another thing she and my mother side on, that I should come and work for the Spirited Heron, because it's a family business and amazingly, when it comes to labor, I'm family again. And I mean that in every way. She'll expect me to wash glasses, clean bathrooms, wait tables, jump behind the bar and work, and in return she'll give me a percentage of the tips from the night. Oh, sure, she'll probably pay the taxes on my house and pay the utilities, if she decides she doesn't want to try to force me to move in with her and my sister, but give me a steady paycheck? Not on your life, or at least not until I "prove" I can be "Depended on." My sister can be depended on and she draws a regular paycheck, shitty as it may be. I figure it would take ten years to show my mom I'm "dependable."

I wonder what my mom would do if she knew Dad trained me to tend bar? Yeah, he used to tend bar here, but the divorce ended that. So, Dad started working at another dive bar across town called The Horse's Bass (the name was a lot funnier in the '60s.) When he got sick, Dale the owner, let him bring me in and train him so I could cover his shifts when he was just too sick to do it. Was it legal? Nope, but nobody ever called us on it, not even the police that came in to drink after hours. They knew I didn't drink, that I was just trying to keep Dad and I going. I likely don't know how to make all those fancy drinks people keep coming up with in the big cities, but I can pull beer and make a Flaming Blue Jesus or even an Appletini if that's your thing. And if you can tell me what's in your fancy frou-frou drink, I can likely replicate it to your satisfaction. "I'm not ready to settle down into a steady job," I said. "I've got business to take care of first. Maybe when I'm done with that." I crossed my fingers behind my back.

"What kind of business?" Janis asked me, squinting at me. When I was eleven, I had a friend who had a massive crush on my sister, then seventeen and a senior in High School. He used to tell me how pretty she was, and I never quite got it, because, well, she's my sister. But I could sort of see what he saw in her. She's tall with very long, very straight, very dark hair and intense blue eyes. She's got what society will tell you is a good body, although I think it would help her to work out a bit more, build some meaty muscle on those skinny bones. Yeah, standing on your feet for a million hours a day is hard, but it's not really all that great in the excise department. Dad used to tell her she was welcome to use the gym at his place, which was really just a fancy name we had for another big outbuilding, this one filled with weights and tires and various other equipment Dad had scrounged from garage sales and trash piles. But, you could get a good workout in there, and I used it almost every day. I don't think my sister had ever set foot in the place. But, all that aside, when my sister squinted and her gaze got hard, she wasn't beautiful, she was hard and ugly, as if life had taken something beautiful out of her. She'd tell you it was my dad. I think it's living with Mom all the time.

"_Business_," I said, shrugging. "As in something I have to do that's _my_ business."

The steel gaze continued, and then she gave an exasperated sigh. "Do _not_ tell me you're going to try to go to wrestling school. Because if _that_ is your fucking game, I refuse to do _anything_ to help you."

"Gee, sis, I see we haven't sat down and had a heart to heart talk about our dreams and goals since, well, let's see, since Mom _crushed_ yours and decided you should fuck your scholarship and work in her shitty bar instead," I said, "I haven't thought about being a wrestler since I was about twelve."

I crossed my fingers on the last part. I _still _wanted to be a wrestler. My dad had done some professional wrestling when I was younger. He never got any further than the local promotion that had shows at the armory on Saturdays, but I remember being a kid and going with him and just loving it. I loved the action and I loved the story lines. I loved watching my dad talking shit about whoever he was up against, a guy that often was also a friend, but not in the squared circle. He had to stop for awhile, because my mom wanted him to work at the bar on Saturdays, but he started again when they got divorced and did it for a few years. Some of my favorite memories of my dad and I were watching him wrestle. Until I was twelve or so, that's all I could talk about whenever the subject of What Do You Want To Be When You Grow Up. At twelve, I started realizing people didn't take that goal very seriously, so I learned to just watch wrestling with my father and keep my mouth shut, but deep down, there was still a twelve year old kid in me who hoped that maybe, someday, I could become a wrestler. I'd just had to push it aside these last few years to help my dad. Dad had showed me stuff before he was unable to do much more than lie on the couch and I did my best to practice although practicing wrestling when you're alone isn't very easy. Part of me, the part that still liked to dream even wondered if this mission might lead to-

Nah, better not to think of things that were about as likely to happen as Mom and I suddenly seeing eye to eye.

"Very funny," Janis said, her eyes rolling upward in a 'Heaven Help me' gesture as she shook her head just to really drive the point home. "I don't mind working here. Mom has given me a lot more responsibility, I'm not_ just _a bartender."

"Glad to hear it," I half lied. "Look, I've got shit I have to take care of, are you willing to help me or not?" Truth be told, what I wanted her to do was as much a favor to her as it was to me, but I didn't want to tell her that, I wanted to see if she'd actually even consider doing me any sort of favor before I let her know what it was.

She sighed, and I thought she was going to flat out refuse me, then she got a look in her eyes that wiped out that hard gaze and softened her face so she suddenly was the sister I could maybe see why my friend crushed on. Her voice suddenly got warm and maybe even a little concerned thrown into it. "Is this about Dad? Did Dad want you to do something with his ashes?"

Dad's body had gone to some cancer research place where it would be carved up and sliced up, in case it wanted to give up any secrets that might help towards discovering a cure. Yeah, once they were done, whatever was left would be cremated and the ashes sent to me, but I was warned that could take awhile. I'd _told_ my sister I'd donated Dad's body, but of course, it wasn't important to her to remember.

I shrugged, and gave a small nod, refusing to meet her eyes. It was close enough to the truth, this mission was all about our dad. To Dad, what I was going to do was more important than the disposal of his ashes. He didn't give a flying fuck in a rolling donut about his ashes and he'd told me as much. "Scatter them between the bike shop and the gym if you want. Toss them in the BBQ and cook a steak with them mixed into the coals, flush them down the toilet, I don't give a shit," were his instructions.

"Oh, Creed," Janis said, and I saw a strange wetness in them. Was she actually getting teary eyed? Call the press, because my sister does _not_ cry. "Dad expected way too much from you," she said. "You're barely twenty-one, _he_ should have been caring for you, not you for him."

God, forgive me, but I wanted to slap her. Where was this attitude when I could have used some help from her or mom? They wouldn't even take him for his chemo treatments once in awhile. I had to keep Dad's ancient pick up truck running the best I could to get him there, or cage rides from his friends. Now that he was dead, and she never had to lift a finger to help, she could be all sympathetic. Poor me? Fuck her. I could feel my fist clenching under the bar, but I did my best to put the anger aside. If it would help me get what Dad wanted I'd do it. "Well," I muttered, hoping that suppressed anger would pass for grief. "He's gone now, and I'd like to honor his last request."

"I get it," she said, and I believed she thought she did get it. "What do you want from me?"

"I have to take Dad's bike for this," I said. "So, will you watch mine? That's the first request. The second is, are you willing to house sit? You'll have the place to yourself, it's all cleaned up from Dad, and it'll save on your commute time." I did not add it would also give her a chance to have a somewhat normal life for a few weeks, a life where Mom wouldn't be breathing down her neck all the time and she could have friends over if she wanted. Or, not, if she just wanted some privacy.

"You're going to let _me_ ride_ your_ bike?" She looked surprised, which did not surprise me at all. I'm not known for letting people ride my bike, in fact, I'm known for not letting anyone even sit on my bike unless I know them really well and know they won't do anything to tip it. But, my sister can ride, and she's good at it. I would have offered her Mom's bike, but we both knew Mom would have freaked out, and I'm glad I got the money for it instead.

"Yeah," I said, shrugging. "I don't think you'll drop it or anything." I didn't have to say it, but she knew the bike and using the house was a combined deal, that I wasn't going to let her borrow the bike unless she was willing to stay in the house where she could park it in the garage/shop. I don't think Mom would refuse to let her borrow it from me, she's not that cold, but she likely would refuse to let Janis park it in the garage. Yeah, Mom's house is in a nice neighborhood, but sometimes those are the places where people go, knowing they're more likely to have the good stuff. A bike like mine, parked in a driveway, could prove to be a huge temptation.

She bit her lip. "The place is really clean?" I gave her that one, Dad wasn't the neatest person in the world, and I'd gotten pretty bad about housekeeping towards the end with Dad myself.

"Yeah, it's very clean," I said, and there was no need to finger cross on that one. I had given the whole place a complete cleaning when Dad died, scrubbing the walls, the floors, even renting one of those Rug Doctor machines and shampooing the carpets in the bedrooms. The house still smelled like Pine-sol and bleach. "You can use your old bedroom. I'd say you could use the master bedroom, but I got rid of Dad's mattress and I haven't replaced it."

"No, that's okay," she said quickly. "I'd feel weird sleeping in there anyway." She bit her lower lip and asked, "When are you leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning," I said. "If you don't take me up on the offer, I'll see if I can get Angelo to stay there." Angelo was a friend of Dad's who liked to buy old bikes for cheap and frankenbike them into something useful. Dad often let him use the shop if he wasn't working on a project himself. I knew Angelo would house sit in return for being allowed to use the garage, but Angelo was also about as crazy as a shithouse rat. I'd be afraid that he'd see my bike in there, and get the idea that my front fork, or my tank or whatever would look good on his latest bike.

"Do you _really_ want Angelo in the house?"

"Hell no," I admitted. "Dad may have trusted him, but that was Dad." I grinned. "So, are you gonna help your brother out?"

"Yeah," she said. "I'll do it."

"Good." I reached into my pocket and pulled out the spare set of keys to my bike and what used to be Dad's keys to the house and outbuildings. I'd put them on a Harley Davidson key chain my father had lying around. "Enjoy the house. Take good care of my bike."

"I will," she said, and I knew she meant it.

.

I drove home and went over Dad's bike, just to make sure it was in good condition. He'd made the frame using the pipe bender he had. He'd gotten his hands on a trashed out Indian Roadmaster that he picked a few things off of that were salvageable, but mostly, it was the engine he wanted. Despite having been in an accident, the engine managed to survive with minimal damage. Dad and I had stripped that engine down and rebuilt it so it might as well have been new.

Dad's bike was not really a chopper, it was more of a touring bike, and I'd teased him about being an old man when he'd built it. Now, I was grateful he had, Reno was over 2000 miles away and I knew that the softer suspension and well padded seat would be a blessing. Even though I had some time, so I wouldn't have to rush to get there, it still was going to be a lot of riding. Dad had built this bike for my 18th birthday, where the two of us went on a road trip, just going wherever the road took us for a week. So, the bike had saddlebags and a medium sized back bar that we had used to bungee cord our sleeping bags. I had loved it, and we'd taken trips on my 19th and 20th birthday, this time for two weeks.

For my 21st birthday, we were going to go across the country. Take a good three months and try to see as much as we could, while stopping to enjoy what we wanted. I'd made a list of crazy tourist attractions we were going to see and we laughed about it, visiting the worlds largest ball of twine, the "cathouse" where there were real cats who could do amazing thing, according to the website. Dad and I spent a lot of hours when he was in treatments talking about how crazy it would be.

Then, he just got worn out from the treatments and decided to let the cancer take him. Dad pretended he'd be able to take the trip, but it became obvious pretty fast that he couldn't. We still talked like it would happen. I think I was doing it for him and he was doing it for me.

The bike checked out great. I loaded it down for the trip, and went to the house.

My sister showed up after work, bringing her car and some clothing she must have gone home for. She stashed her clothes in her old room, which hadn't changed at all since she and our mom had lived here.

We didn't argue, we didn't really talk much. I ordered a large pizza from a terrible pizza place that's only redeeming feature is that they'll actually deliver to this godforsaken place. Janis and I ate it while watching TV, her on the couch, me in the chair that used to be dad's. We kept our conversation to trivial things, like what we were watching on TV.

.

Janis was asleep when I woke up the next day, before the sun had risen. I stayed quiet to let her sleep. I didn't even bother with coffee. I'd stop on the road for breakfast and have some then. I was eager to get started.

.

I gave myself plenty of time to take the trip, and I took advantage of that. I rolled slow and stopped a lot. Not at any of the silly tourist traps my father and I planned on going to. I wasn't ready for that. Instead I took back roads and stopped at places where the scenery was beautiful. My dad was a sucker for mom and pop motor courts. You know the places, they often have a few rooms, and then small cabins. My dad always loved staying in those cabins. There aren't many around anymore, but every one I saw, I stopped at, the more run down looking the better. If they had a porch, I'd sit on it, just like my dad and I would have done. At one of them, a black swallowtail butterfly kept fluttering about me, almost to the point of annoyance. I would wave it away and it would disappear for a few seconds then flutter right back.

Then I remembered something one of dad's friends told me, some ancient belief that people who died could come back as butterflies and certain birds to check on their loved ones. The butterfly started fluttering about me again and even though I don't believe in that type of foolishness, I could help it. "Dad," I whispered, "Is that you?"

Strangely enough, the butterfly stopped being annoying and lighted on the backrest of the rocking chair next to mine. He stayed a couple hours, sometimes flying for a bit, then landing right back on the chair. "Okay," I said, still feeling silly, but figuring what the heck. I was only 21, I didn't know everything about this world. "If that is you, dad, it's good to see you. You can see, I'm on the way to do what you wanted." And before I could help myself, I swallowed hard and in a slightly trembling voice, told the butterfly I missed him.

The butterfly flew off the chair and landed on my hand, where it sat for a good five minutes before going to the back of the chair again.

I slept really good that night.

.

I stopped into a bar in Wyoming on a Monday night, and they had RAW on the TV, so I ended up staying for a few beers and an absolutely horrible, greasy, delicious hamburger with fries cooked in oil that had probably been there on the day I was born. While I was eating my burger, a woman struck up a conversation with me. She turned out to be a wrestling fan and I thought about telling her my mission, but at the last moment, I changed my mind. It was still too private and personal for me. But, as it turned out, all I needed to do was to be into wrestling. When RAW was over and we left the bar, she ended up hoping on my bike. She rode with me until I was about to leave Utah to head into Nevada. She was twenty eight and when she found out I was just 21, she teased me and joked that she felt like a cougar. She was a great woman and we had a lot of fun. I did end up telling her that I had always wanted to be a wrestler. I waited for her to roll her eyes, because even wrestling fans sometimes get this notion that it's weird to want to _be_ a wrestler, that wrestling was for watching only. But, she looked me over thoughtfully and said I'd make a good cruiser weight.

"If you're not afraid of heights and have the chops, you'd make a good high flier," she added. "You should go to one of those wrestling schools."

Even though I knew our relationship wasn't going to last, I think I fell a little bit in love with her, just for taking me seriously.

When I left her near the Nevada border, I gave her two hundred dollars from my Dad's funding for this mission. I was pretty sure I could spare it, and maybe it was that stupid butterfly making me all weird, but I wondered if Dad had put that woman in my path to tell me it was okay to go for my dream?

.

I got to Reno on Sunday, which fit into my plans perfectly. I took my dad's bike to one of those "wash it yourself" car washes and cleaned off all the road dust and polished her up so she was looking showroom new. I got a room at a cheap hotel and stashed my stuff there. The only thing I put in the saddle bags was the plastic folder with all the papers.

My last stop was at a store, where I bought a Samsung Tracfone. I paid for a year service plan and added some text and phone minutes. I knew I might be throwing away money, but, then again, maybe I wasn't.

I headed down to the arena. I'd gotten some sleep at the hotel room, so I just parked in the back and waited.

There was a concert going on in the arena last night. I waited until the concert was over and the stage was being torn down and packed up. Then, I rolled in the parking lot.

Being an unstable junkie, Dad had found a lot of ways to make cash and one he taught me was being general roadie. Any type of traveling entertainment was usually a rushed affair. You got to a new location, and you only had so much time to set up a huge show. Yes, roadies who specialized were usually permanent members of the road crew, but the grunts., the ones that did the hauling and lifting, that taped down the wires, or ran for coffee, they were the drifters, the lowest of the low, and always needed.

I found a safe place to park my bike and looked for someone who was in charge, or at least could get to someone in charge. Within an hour, I was working.

I made it a point to work as hard and fast as I could. I wasn't the only person who'd gotten a quick job, but I was determined to be the best. While other guys would go outside to haul stuff in and decide to have a smoke first, I just kept my head down and worked. I got a few dirty looks from the other temps who thought I was a suck up, but I didn't care, I wasn't there to make friends.

About an hour before the music folks rolled out, the road crew for the WWE rolled in and I was able to seamlessly transfer from working for the band, to working for the WWE. I worked just as hard for the WWE, mostly lugging crap in and giving it to the right people. Lighting equipment, sound equipment, so on and so forth. I helped set up a couple "offices" where promos would be filmed and I did my best to act aloof, as if I didn't care at all about wrestling or wrestlers, I just wanted to earn some cash.

I worked all night and into the next day. I saw other people start rolling in, production crews, the catering company and other folks whose job was to make things work so the talent could do their jobs. I pretended that none of this mattered at all, while inside of me, that kid I used to be was fascinated and wanted to run around and jump up and down, all excited.

My plan was to collect the money I was promised (Cash, of course) and then, as I was going to leave, pretend to remember that I'd left my jacket inside, and run to get it, but instead of leaving, find a place where I could hide until the talent arrived. Hopefully, I'd be able to go about unnoticed until I found who I was looking for.

When it got about eleven, I was told to take a break. I tried to protest, I was told that I'd worked my ass off, and I deserved a half hour or so to rest. "When you get back, we'll only have about an hour, and then we'll pay you and you can go. You're good, kid, if you want to come back tomorrow night, after they film Smackdown, we could use you."

That was my back up plan, to come down here the next night, after the show, and see if I could find someone willing to help me, but I sure was hoping it wouldn't come to that, because it was a long shot, and I didn't know what I'd do if I couldn't do this.

So, I thanked the guy, and went out to the bike with a can of Coke I'd bought from a vending machine. Half and hour to kill. I pulled the folder with the papers from the saddlebags and stared at them. I had promised my dad I wouldn't read them. He'd told me the story and he thought they weren't mine to read. I had respected that while he was alive, I respected it while on this trip, but now I realized if I didn't read it now, I might never get the chance.

And I had a right to know.

So, I pulled out the papers and found a bunch of letters, neatly organized. At first there were just responses to letters my father had sent, then, later, there were copies of the letters my father had written, made with carbon paper, stapled to the responses.

And, there were pictures. Not many, but a few. A woman who wasn't my mother, this was all before my mother. Holding a little boy who was now older than I was. And worked for the WWE. _Shit, he didn't let the grass grow under his feet like I have. _

I knew I wouldn't have time to read all the letters, so I started skimming them.

_Kyle, _

_I know you want to be part of his life, but I can't trust you. You're a user and you're not making any effort to clean up._

The theme was the same. Over and over again, my Dad was told that yes, the little boy in the pictures was his son, but no, he would never be allowed to be part of his life. When I got to the letters where Dad had copies of his own letters, I saw the theme from both sides. Dad wanted to be part of his son's life. The woman didn't trust him. She'd gotten clean, she wasn't going to risk her son. She wasn't asking for child support, she just wanted to be left alone.

Dad made a choice once. His son or drugs. He picked drugs. Dad made a choice once. His son or drugs. He picked me.

I couldn't read anymore, it was making me dizzy and I needed time to digest it. I put the papers back into the folder and held it, drinking my coke.

That's when I saw the black SUV pull into the parking lot and head for the garage. Someone important showing up early, but as the vehicle turned to enter the garage, one of the windows was open and I saw inside.

My half brother.

Without even thinking about it, I grabbed the folder and ran in the direction of the SUV, making it into the garage before the door rolled shut. The car stopped, the door opened and when he got out, I did what might be the stupidest thing I'd ever done, I tried to run up to him.

I was almost there, when security came out of nowhere, and grabbed me. Thinking about it now, I think they were doing their job, but I was so close to my goal, that I started going, "I just have to give him something!"

I had opened the folder and tucked something inside my jacket earlier, which was good, because security took that folder away from me really fast. "Dean!" I shouted. "Please, I just need to give you something!"

He didn't look scared, he looked a little curious. He was probably more used to folks asking him for something. But, security wasn't going to let him ask any questions, they started hustling him away.

His friends got out, Roman Reigns and Seth Rollins. Security was sticking close, but not as close. I was still being held back, I think they were debating if the cops should arrest me. I looked at Roman. "Please, dude, I just want to give him an envelope, help me! It's something he'll want, I swear to god!"

Dean was already out of sight and Roman turned to follow.

I'd blown it. I was going to end up in jail. "I'll leave," I told security. "Escort me outside and I'll leave and never come back. I've got a ticket in my wallet for the show tonight, you can take it from me. I swear to god, I don't want to hurt him, that's the last thing I want. I just want to give him something." I was babbling and I didn't care. Tears were falling down my face, I was convinced I'd blown everything my father wanted and I was so upset with me and how badly I'd botched everything. "My dad is dead, and this was his last request."

Both Seth and Dean were out of sight and likely out of earshot, but Roman wasn't. He paused and looked back at me. "It's just paper, kid?"

I nodded. "You can look at it before you give it to him and if you feel he shouldn't have it, then don't give it to him!" My hands were still behind my back and security was trying to subdue me. "The envelope is right inside my jacket!"

Roman drew in a deep breath, looking as if he already regretted what he was going to do. Security was still trying to hustle him off, but he motioned for them to stop. He looked at one of them, "Get the papers. I don't know who this kid is, but it's just papers."

The security guard looked irritated, but came over. He opened the front of my dad's leather jacket, that I had worn on this whole trip, and pulled out the envelope I had there. The flap wasn't sealed and he opened it and looked inside. When he saw it was just a piece of paper, nothing else, no weird dust either, he pulled it out, looked at it, stared at me, flipped it over, read the back, then stared at me some more. "Give it to him!" I insisted.

The guard walked over and handed Roman the piece of paper. Roman looked at it, then his eyes widened and he started staring at me. "What is this?"

"The title," I said, and I felt the tears starting to come to my eyes. "To my, I mean, our dad's bike. He's dead, but he wanted Dean to have it."

Now Roman was curious and he walked over to me, security still flanking him, but not stopping him. "Let him go," he ordered. He looked at me. "Dean doesn't know who his father is."

"I _do!_" I said, hoping he would hear the sincerity in my voice, "Because he was my father too!" I nodded my head in the direction of the file folder the guard had been looking through. "The whole story is there. Along with a freight ticket so he can get the bike shipped to Vegas. _Please!_ This is my Dad's one dying wish."

Roman held his hand out to the guard with the folder. Since he had checked it and found it to really contain nothing but papers, he handed it to Roman. Roman looked through it, seeing the bundle of letters, the pictures, the paperwork transferring the bike to Dean Ambrose, the freight ticket I'd bought, and a picture of the bike itself. He looked at the photos of Dean and his mother when Dean was just a baby and then a toddler, and his eyes widened. They widened even further when he saw the picture of my Dad's bike and realized it wasn't some piece of crap. "I have to show this to Dean," he said.

I nodded. "I know it's confusing, I know it's weird, I know all of that, but it's all true, too. Read the letters, they tell the story. But I have to know if he's going to take the bike. My dad wanted him to. Please."

Roman looked at the guards who had let me go, but were awful close, ready to pounce on me. "I have to talk to Dean about this. Let him go out to the bike." He looked at me. "Wait by the bike, someone will come out and tell you what's up soon enough."

I nodded, the tears falling down my face, and I didn't know if they were grief or relief, but I had a feeling they were both. "Thank you!"

.

I went out and sat quietly on my Dad's bike and waited. I figured someone from security would come out, but instead, I saw Dean himself come out. He must have thrown off security, because he looked for all the world like he was sneaking out of there. He saw me and hurried over. "What the fuck is going on?" he demanded.

I got off the bike so he could see all of it. "This is my dad's bike, well our dad's bike. I helped him build it, and it's all custom. He loved this bike and it was the last bike he'd ever make for himself, the last he would ever own and he wanted you to have it. All the paperwork is legit. It's your bike, if you want it."

He stared at me. "You're my half brother?"

I nodded.

"How do I know your dad wasn't just a delusional psycho?"

"You haven't read the letters yet," I said. "But, he was. He wouldn't contact you when he was alive, especially when you became famous. He felt you'd think he was just coming out of the woodwork to try to take advantage of you. Your mom wouldn't let him be part of your life because my dad was a user and she didn't want you around that."

He snorted, but he was also staring at the bike, appreciating how beautiful it was. It was hard not to fall in love with that bike. "Mom didn't stay clean herself," he said. "She started using again when I was three." He shook his head, then hastily added, "She's clean now and doing really good."

"Then ask her, if you think I'm making any of this up," I said. "Read the letters, and ask her, if you're still skeptical."

"I'll do that," he said slowly. "Shit, I'd asked Mom about my father before, and she always played that she couldn't remember. She lied."

"She didn't want you to get involved with an addict," I defended his mother, and I wasn't sure why. "You can't blame her. But, Dad did care. He wanted to be part of your life, but he was messed up then."

"Was he messed up when he had you?"

I shrugged. "He had an on again off again affair with heroin that lasted until I was twelve. Mom and I weren't getting along, and I wanted to live with him. Mom said I could, if Dad could stay clean for a year and he did."

"Did he stay clean?" His head was tipped to one side, and he was tapping his fingers along his collar bone. I recognized the gesture, it wasn't something I did, but my father did whenever he was nervous.

I nodded. "My mom made him get tested every three months until I was eighteen. He never touched any drugs until he-" I stopped, and decided now was not the time to tell him I had made him a junkie again. "He got cancer. It got bad," was all I said.

He stared at me, eyes narrowed, studying me carefully, then slowly nodded and I had a feeling he knew what I'd done and why I'd done it. "I'm sorry you lost him," he said, "you loved him a lot, didn't you?"

I nodded. "He wasn't perfect, a lot of folks would probably say he was a shitty dad, but he wasn't." I could feel those fucking tears prickling the corners of my eyes again. "I loved him more than any person on this earth," I said, before I could stop myself. "And all he wanted was for me to give you this bike and the papers. I could have just not done it, but I couldn't do that to him."

He nodded, and I could see the sympathy in his eyes. "I don't have much time," he admitted. "Security is going to be looking for me, and they'll be pissed I came out here without them. But I have a _lot _of questions."

"I know," I said. "And, under the seat, where the tools are, there's a burner phone. A Tracfone. It's good for a year. My number is in it. You can contact me anytime. You won't have to give me your number. You can text me too."

He stared at the bike again and looked at me, shaking his head. "I wish I knew how to ride."

Through the tears that were still blurring my vision, I smiled. "You'll learn," I said. "It's not hard. And you'll love it. You're related to him, you _have_ to love it, it's in our blood."

.

I left shortly after that, but I found a quiet corner and watched as he got someone to get the bike into the parking garage in the arena where it would be safe. I knew he'd keep it. He'd get the freight company to get it to Las Vegas and he'd keep it and he'd learn to ride.

I'd wanted to tell him that Dad had been a wrestler, I wanted to tell him how much I admired him and how much _I_ wanted to be a wrestler, but I knew that wasn't the time. I didn't know if the time would ever come. He might decide to keep the bike, and that was it. He might not want the burden of a half brother, and I couldn't blame him. He'd made a good life for himself without me or my father. He didn't need me complicating his life.

I still had the ticket to RAW in my pocket, but suddenly, all I wanted to do was go back to the hotel to sleep. _Keep it, _I told myself. _You can burn it and mix it with Dad's ashes when you get them. Let him know you accomplished the goal._

.

I woke up the next day feeling hungover, even though I hadn't drank. I took a long shower and checked out of the room. I had my stuff with me and the bus station wasn't far. It would be a long ride home on a bus, but that was okay, I could probably use the time to think.

_He's not going to call, _I told myself, as I walked.

I got to the bus station and bought a ticket. I had about an hour before the bus left, so I bought some coffee and sat down. It felt weird to be wearing Dad's jacket, but not to be riding. I had debated on if I should give Dean the jacket, but at the last moment, I knew I couldn't do it. Dad hadn't said anything about the jacket, so I had the right to keep it. Had he told me to give it to Dean, I would have.

And while I sat there, waiting for the bus, I started to feel better. I began to accept that Dean wouldn't call me, but that was all right. I'd done the only thing that mattered. He had the bike now, my father could rest in peace.

When the bus came, I headed out to board and as I was waiting to give the driver my gear to stash, a black swallowtail butterfly began fluttering around me. "I get it, Dad," I said softly, shaking my head at the butterfly. "And you're welcome."

As I boarded the bus, my phone began to ring. I pulled it out of my pocket and looked at who was calling, expecting it to be one of Dad's friends or maybe the girl I'd traveled with, I'd given her my number.

The caller ID said "Brother." The name I'd programmed my phone to identify the Tracfone.

I hit the "Answer" button and put the phone to my ear. "Hello?"

* * *

Author's notes: So, Creed has been running around in my head for awhile. I don't know how he got there, but he's been there, whispering to me. Telling me he wanted his time.

I like him. I might want to write something where he and Dean get a chance to do some riding together. I'm just trying to figure out of he belongs in my "main" world (Where Dean is with Cinnamon) or another world.

Thank you to anyone who made it this far, for indulging me in this flight of fancy. I really do appreciate it and hope you didn't find it too awful. Although, you made it to the end, that has to mean something!

Feel free to leave me a review if you want. If you don't, that's cool too.


	2. Chapter 2

**Authors Notes:** I'm doing something different with this story. Since I came back, I have only posted once I've finished the rough draft. This was so I would never leave a story unfinished. I'm still embarrassed about _Ties That Blind _and that I just lost interest in it. I don't even remember exactly what was supposed to happen.

But, _Roll Me Away_ was meant to be a one shot with an ending designed to make folks think of their own conclusion. And, it was an experiment. But it seems folks liked it and I've enjoyed writing it, so I think I'm going to break my rule and post before I finish it. I've got five chapters so far, but beyond that? I'm still working on it.

So, I hope you like it, I hope folks continue to like Creed Ryvers.

* * *

.

**Chapter Two**

{o}-{o}-{o}

.

Even though I'd rolled slow the whole way to Reno, the bus trip back seemed to take even longer. Yeah, sure, I could stare out the windows and I did a lot of that, but a bus is like a car in the sense that you're observing. Robert Pirsig described it best in his book, Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance when he said:

"_In a car you're always in a compartment, and because you're used to it you don't realize that through that car window everything you see is just more TV. You're a passive observer and it is all moving by you boringly in a frame. _

_On a cycle the frame is gone. You're completely in contact with it all. You're in the scene, not just watching it anymore, and the sense of presence is overwhelming."_

Mr. Pirsig could add buses along with cars, and even worse on a bus, you're super passive, you aren't even _driving_. So mostly I sat there, staring out the window, wishing I could have ridden home.

Fortunately, I had some bright spots. He'd _called_ me. My half brother, the one, the only, Dean Ambrose, had actually used that burner phone I'd left with Dad's bike and _called_ me. He hadn't had a lot of time to talk, he'd been heading to the airport to fly to the next gig, but he did tell me he'd read over the papers, looked at the pictures, talked to his wife, and the conclusion all around was that my dad had been telling the truth. I had known that he was, of course, but it was nice that he believed it too.

He also told me that he didn't live in Las Vegas anymore, which shocked me. All the cheat sheets, all the online stuff said he lived in Las Vegas. As it turned out, he was living in West Virginia, and he kept it on the down low because he didn't want the media messing with his wife and his kids. "They like to live a low key lifestyle," he explained. "My wife had a life before I came back into it, and she likes that life. She'd never make it as some big shot celebrity wife, and I don't want to make her."

I was concerned about the bike. "Do I need to call the freight company and have them take the bike to West Virginia?" I asked. "Or, well, you don't want to give me your address, I understand. Is there a way I can send you the extra money to ship the bike to West Virginia? I don't want to cause you any trouble or extra expense."

He laughed then. "Something tells me I can afford to have it shipped to West Virginia more than you can. It's cool. I still own my place in Vegas, so I'm having it shipped there for now."

"Then you'll have it shipped to West Virginia, right?" I'd asked.

His voice sounded a bit hesitant when he answered. "Possibly. I'm considering some other options."

I got quiet after that, which was okay because he had to go anyway. But I wasn't sure I liked that answer. What I wanted to hear was, "Yeah, I'm going to get it back to West Virginia and learn to ride as soon as I can, I can't wait!"

In all the time Dad and I had talked about getting the bike to him, it never occurred to me that he might not want to ride it. I guess I just figured it was in our blood, but I'd never heard of him owning or riding a motorcycle, and if it was really in our blood, wouldn't he have discovered it by now? Maybe his wife wasn't keen on the idea either. _Shit, _I thought, as I stared at the phone, _I sure hope he doesn't want to sell it. _It was odd, but I couldn't afford a bike I'd helped my father build, that I could have kept and not given it to Dean. So, if he did want to sell it, I couldn't even say, "I'll buy it."

He didn't call me on the rest of the trip, and I didn't call him either. I really didn't want to be a pain in the ass, calling when I really had nothing to say and he was busy. But, he did start texting me when he could. At first from the burner phone, then from his real phone.

**You're family,**he texted the first time he used his real phone. **I trust you with my number.**

You might not believe it to see me, but I'm pretty fast with texting, so I shot a message back, in part just to test his reaction. _**I promise I won't sell it on Ebay for any less than a hundred grand**__. _

I got back a laughing emoji, which pleased me. He got that I was joking with him.

.

It was a weird conversation, because most of the time we'd get a chance to shoot one line or so at each other, then he'd have to go do something. But we still managed to learn a bit about each other. I learned his wife's name was Cinnamon and they had two kids, a boy, Neil and a girl named Alice.

_**Cinnamon and Neil**__,_ I texted when he told me. _**That's a trip.**_

**Oh god, don't tell me you get the connection?**

_**I wanna live with a Cinnamon Girl  
I could be happy the rest of my life  
With a Cinnamon girl… **__  
__**Neil Young. One of his ear worm songs**__.** Every time I hear it, it gets stuck in my head for hours.**_

**You and my wife are going to get along great. That's exactly what she's named after. Her parents were huge Neil Young fans, and she named our son Neil to honor them.**

_**I get it,**_I typed back. _**My father named me Creedence**__. _I didn't say anything, but I was thrilled that he was actually talking like I should meet his family. Even if he hadn't come out and said it, he was making it clear he wanted me to be part of his life and that was mind blowing.

**Ouch, that's rough. **

_**Eh, not as bad as you might think. It sucked when I was in school and the teachers read out my full name the first day of classes, but mostly I go by Creed and that doesn't sound that weird, just uncommon**__._

**Cin jokes that she's pretty sure her parents didn't realize they were giving her a stripper name**_**.**_

I laughed at that, but didn't type LOL. I wasn't sure he wanted folks to laugh at it. So, I just typed _** I'll bet.**_

It probably sounds like that conversation happened all at once, but it happened over the course of a couple days. I was on a bus, so every time he texted, I was able to respond quickly, but I wouldn't hear from him. for awhile. I was trying not to leap on his texts though, because, well, I didn't want to come off like a raging fanboy.

.

The bus pulled in late at night, and I ended up calling my sister to get a ride back to the house, which left me with the dilemma of explaining why I wasn't riding Dad's bike. Dad never told her about Dean Ambrose and if he had, she likely would have told me something along the lines of "If Dean is a famous wrestler, he can buy his own bike. You don't have to give it to him, let him buy it if he wants it." And thrown in stuff about Dad being a lousy dad and since he was dead, it didn't matter. I was feeling like my relationship with our half brother was a fragile thing, I just wasn't ready to have it dissected by Janis. I knew if Dean was serious about adding me into his life, I'd have to tell him about his half sister one of these days and I was so _not_ looking forward to that.

So, I settled on something relatively close to the truth, but not exactly, which is often how I handled Janis and our mother for that matter. "Dad wanted the bike to go to someone and I delivered it as he requested."

"Who?" Janis asked.

Now came the not-the-truth-at-all part. "A friend," I said. "Some guy he knew from before he met Mom."

"I hope he was grateful," Janis said, her voice going lower.

"He was," I said, and I didn't think that was a lie.

"Good. Did he give you anything for it? At least buy your bus ticket home?"

"No," I said, shaking my head. "He didn't even know he was getting the bike, why should he have to pay for me to get home?"

"Because he accepted the bike," Janis said, in typical Janis logic, which she inherited from Mom. "That bike is worth some serious money, it's one of a kind. He should have realized when he accepted it, that he was at least obligated to get you back home!" She shook her head. "Bus ticket? no, he should have bought you a _plane_ ticket!"

What I wanted to say, _Shut the fuck up, Janis. _What I actually said, "I think he was in too much shock to think of that. He hadn't heard from Dad in a long time, and suddenly his son shows up with a bike to give him and to tell him his friend was dead. That would throw most people off their stride. Besides, Dad left me money to do this for him, so I had the money for the bus ticket. So, how's _my_ bike doing?"

She sniffed, knowing I had changed the subject deliberately. "It's fine. Thank you for letting me use it, I enjoyed riding again."

"You should get one," I suggested. Janis was a good rider, that was one thing my dad managed to teach her and she'd owned a bike Dad had built for her for a couple years before she sold it. And I have a funny feeling she didn't want to sell it, that she was coerced.

She answered me with one word, "Mom." Which probably answered the question of who coerced her into selling her bike too.

This was a game I played with Janis all the time, think what I _wanted_ to say, then say something else. In this case, _ fuck Mom,_ to myself and, "You're old enough that Mom can't really say much, can she?"

"I live with her," Janis pointed out. "And it's her house."

Again, _Fuck Mom, _"Get your own place."

She fell into silence and instantly I knew the issue. So, again there was that internal voice and what I actually said. _Fuck Mom with a rusty pole,_ was the thought."If Mom can't afford to pay you a living wage to manage her bar, then go find something else that will pay you enough. You work your ass off for her, you should at least be able to afford not to live under her thumb on your off time."

"It isn't like that, Creed," she said, and I heard the defensive note in her voice, and knew instantly it was _exactly_ "like that." "Mom needs to invest back into the bar, so it's better that she pays me less, but lets me live with her. She doesn't charge me rent."

_Of course not, you don't charge rent to slaves. But if you got yourself another job to earn some money for yourself? She'd find a reason to charge you. _"Well, I guess that's something." I even avoided mentioning that I hadn't seen any damned improvements to the Spirited Heron since our Grandparents died. And before that, the only improvement I saw was Dad making and installing a new hardwood floor for the place. I helped him with it, and all Mom did was bitch and moan that we had to close the bar _one_ Monday night to give the epoxy time to harden and dry.

"Someday it will be mine," Janis reminded me.

_Someday when you're as old and bitter as Mom is. _ "Well, if your dream has been to own a dive bar, then more power to you, sis." I knew that even if my mom died a billionaire, I wasn't going to inherit squat. Since Dad left me everything he had, I saw that as fair.

We fell silent for awhile. Part of me felt like I should offer to let her move in with me. She and Mom thought the place was a shack because of where it was located and how it looked on the outside, but, she _was_ my sister and it would get her out from under Mom's thumb and put her closer to work. On the other hand, then I'd have to deal with her, which didn't thrill me and even worse, _Mom_ would think this meant she had an open invitation to drop by all the time. Thanks, but no thanks. Dad had put the house in my name when I was eighteen, so it isn't like I just inherited it, it had been mine for awhile. "So, did anyone stop by when I was gone?" I finally asked when the silence got oppressive.

"Angelo. He said Kyle told him he could go through the shop and take whatever he wanted for bike parts."

I groaned, automatically anticipating the worst. "You didn't…"

"No, I'm not _that_ mean," she said and she actually smiled. "I told him that I wasn't in charge of Kyle's business, you were, so he would have to wait until you came back and talk to you about it. I said you hadn't even trusted me with the keys to the shop."

"Thanks," I said, relief running through me. Angelo would have cleaned out the shop and Dad did have some good stock in there. I was going to have to decide what to do with it one of these days, but not today. "Anyone else?"

"A few of Kyle's friends," she said. "They seemed surprised that I was there, they wanted to see you."

I nodded, doing my best not to show annoyance at Janis referring to Dad as Kyle. She did that sometimes, talked like dad and her knew each other, but weren't related. I hated it and I didn't think it was fair. I didn't get along with Mom, but I didn't run around calling her Mary. "I'm sure they'll drop by again," I said.

"Yeah," she said, and drew in a breath as if she were drawing on inner strength. "Creed, I'm worried about you."

_Yeah? You didn't seem so worried about me when I was the only one taking care of Dad as he was dying. _"Oh?" I said nothing else. I wasn't going to help her by asking her what she was worried about.

"_Dad's_ friends stopped by."

_At least she called him, Dad._ "Is that so surprising? They know me through Dad. They know how hard his death hit me. They check on me, what's the problem?"

Another inhale, followed by a sharp exhale of breath. "Creed, none of _your_ friends stopped by." I opened my mouth, but she beat me. "Okay, I know, Dad's friends have become your friends, but really, nobody under the age of fifty stopped by."

"Your point?"

"You're _twenty-one_, Creed. You should have friends your own age. You used to when you were living with Mom and I, what happened?"

"I had friends after I moved in with him," I said, trying to keep my voice calm. I'd never been popular, unlike Janis who could make friends with a cactus if she had to. I wasn't a freak or anything, I just didn't mind being alone as much as other people. When I'd moved in with Dad, we were so far from almost anyone else, so friends weren't all that eager to come over. And, honestly, I liked spending time with my dad. If I were older and we hadn't been father and son, I like to think Dad and I would have met and become best friends. And the few friends I had near my age completely disappeared when my life became more about taking care of dad than partying with them.

"Where are they?"

My inner words matched my outer ones, but the tone was different. Inwardly I was snarling, outwardly, I was trying to be calm. "Guys my age generally don't want to watch someone taking care of their dying father, and face it, _someone_ had to take care of him." I put a lot into that _someone_, because when Dad was dying, Janis and Mom were never around.

The rest of the ride to the house was silent. I had debated on asking Janis if she wanted to at least spend the night, that she could go to Mom's bar tomorrow and then go to Mom's house after that, but now I was too angry to make the offer, I needed some alone time.

.

Life went on with that weird feeling life always gets after you've done something that seems life changing, but you realize you still end up doing the same stuff. I worked at the Horse's Bass a few shifts a week, worked out in the gym, fixed or helped others fix bikes. That was a side thing my dad did, and it seemed that people realized he had trained me and just figured I could take his place. A lot of Dad's friends could have done work themselves, but they claimed they were getting older and it was just convenient to have me do it. I thought some of that might be bullshit, but I recognized it was coming from a good place, they knew I wasn't made of money and out of love and respect for my dad, they decided to let me fix or maintain their bikes. So, I did the best I could and if I noticed something else I could do or fix for them, I did it for free.

I also volunteered at a church about five miles up the road. I am not a religious person, neither was my father, but when my father was really sick, when we probably should have had him in hospice, the members of the congregation began bringing food to us. Not just the usual casseroles and desserts you hear about church folks bringing, but real food like homemade soups and pot roast dinners. And they did it discreetly. I would get a knock at the door and when I got there, I'd find a bag on the front porch, with the food in it and any instructions on how to heat it up, if they were needed. And someone would be driving away. One of my father's friends was a member of the church and I suspected he had told the church that Dad was nearing the end and eating was hard for him and that I wasn't eating well myself. To me, this was amazingly generous, they had nothing to gain by feeding Dad and I. They weren't hanging out trying to convert me or to try to save Dad's soul before he died, they just brought the food.

Their church building was formerly a small church built for the local farmers, back when this area was nothing but 80 acre family farms. With so many farms going factory, the little church had closed its doors before I was even born and had stood abandoned until the members of the congregation raised the money and bought it about five years ago. They were slowly fixing it up, but it had been in such bad shape that they had to do a lot of things as cheap as possible to get the building so they could use it. They had carpeted the entire place with cheap carpet after replacing the rotten floorboards. So I volunteered to redo the actual part where folks sat and the preacher preached with a plywood one. I'd cut the plywood into strips,then sand and stain so it would look like a hardwood floor. They were delighted and supplied the plywood for me. They also trusted that I knew what I was doing, which was pretty generous of them.

I did do one thing that reminded me that life _had_ changed, and that was text with my half brother. As it was when I was on the bus, he didn't have a lot of time to text me, but when he could he did and I always answered.

Then, one afternoon when I was working on the church floor, I got a text from him.

**How fast do you think I could learn to ride that bike well enough to travel a thousand miles?**

I answered him quickly, _**That depends on who teaches you, how motivated you are, and how long you're going to give yourself to take that road trip**__. _

His return text came seconds after I sent mine. **Let's say I had ninety no make that sixty days to do all of it? Learn to ride and make the trip?**

I was pretty sure Dean used the "Talk to text" feature on his phone, because the texts often sounded like he was talking his thoughts rather than texting. _**It's possible if you're motivated and you have a good teacher. I wouldn't take a trip that long alone though. You should have someone with you. **_As I texted, I got up and went outside, taking a break, because this was going to be a steady conversation not a sentence every hour or more.

**Okay, what if I was really motivated and my teacher and riding partner was you? **

I stared at the screen for several minutes, reading those words over and over again, half expecting them to disappear. I was sure he was waiting for a response, so I finally typed _**I can teach you, so I guess it's down to how motivated you are**__._

**Will you ride with me too? **

Would I ride with him? A chance to ride with my older half brother who also happened to be Dean Ambrose? Was he kidding? _**Sure, I'd be happy to teach you and be your partner on a road trip. What are you thinking? **_

**I'll have the bike shipped to where you are. Then, I'll come out and visit, spend some time learning to ride and getting to know you. When you feel I'm ready, we'll head to West Virginia so you can meet your extended family. Can we do it in sixty days or so? Because I want some time in West Virginia with you and my family, too**_**. **_

Dean Ambrose wanted to stay with me? Now that was something to make me nervous. I lived in some tiny house in the middle of nowhere, a house that looked kinda slummy and run down, at least on the outside. He probably lived in a mansion and stayed at five star hotels. _**I don't know if you'll be comfortable in my house. It's not much**__. _I thought that might look like I didn't want him to stay, so I added, _**I've got the room, it's a three bedroom place, it's just probably a lot smaller than you're used to**__. _

He was right on top of that one, like he'd anticipated it. **Bro, I grew up in the projects. When I was in the indies, I stayed in some places that probably make your place look like a palace. Until recently, my family and I lived in a small ranch house built in the '80s as cheap housing. I'm not visiting your house, I want to visit you. Your house isn't going to teach me how to ride that motorcycle our father built, you ar**_**e.**_

I had to read that message a couple times because I got stuck on the "our father." His daughter who had known him all her life called our Dad by his first name half the time, but Dean, who never had a chance to know who he was, called him our father.

Apparently, I drifted a little too much, because I got another text. **Hello? You still there, bro?**

_**Yes**__, _I typed and sent that off so he'd know I was still around, then I typed, _**Okay, I'd love to have you stay with me. And I would love to teach you how to ride and meet your family. But how are you going to get time off? I hear the WWE expects you to be around all the time unless injured. You're not injured are you?**_I sure hoped he hadn't pulled a shoulder or something, because if he was going out on injury, I sure wasn't going to teach him to ride. You do _not_ put an injured beginner on a bike.

**Nope, I'm not injured and it's going to take a few weeks for this to happen. Is that all right with you?**

Was it all right? Actually, it was perfect. I needed some time to finish the floor for the church, then I needed time to get Dad's room together. At this point, Dad's room didn't even have a bed in it anymore. I'd gotten rid of the mattress right after he died, then, when I got home, I got rid of the box spring and bed frame. Yes, the bed frame was stupid, but I just didn't want any part of that bed anymore. But, I had some ideas on how I could make it all right by the time he got out here. _**That works great. And you can get the bike out here whenever it's easy for you, I've got the storage**__. _

**Good, I can get on that right away. I'll keep you in the loop, okay? I have to go though, there's a meeting I can't miss.**

_**Okay, Yeah, let me know what's going on. Have fun at the meeting? **_

His return response was an emoji of that bright yellow face, but it was greenish and puking and I just started laughing.

* * *

So, does anyone want to take a guess how Dean's going to get time off? I'm thinking I came up with a pretty obscure idea, so I'm wondering if anyone else would think of it.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's** **Notes:** My plans with this story is to keep writing in the first person perspective, but I would like to switch that first person from Creed to Dean from time time. This is mostly Creed's story, but there are times when I think I need to share Dean's feelings about this. I will always mark the Dean sections clearly and I am going to do my best to make them separate chapters.

* * *

.

**Chapter Three**

{o}-{o}-{o}

_**Dean**_

.

The worst part of all of this was calling my mom. I was already positive Creed was telling the truth, I mean, the letters were in Mom's handwriting and there were pictures of me as a kid my mother had sent this guy. I wasn't able to piece the whole story together, like how Kyle Ryvers and my mom met, or how he found out my mom had gotten pregnant by him, but those were just minor details. As far as I was concerned, I didn't even have to call Mom, but Cinnamon was pretty insistent.

"She has a right to know," she said.

"Why? _She's_ not related to my half brother at all. She doesn't have anything to do with it."

"Mox," she'd said in that tone she had that she knew I was just being stubborn. "It won't kill you to call her. She does have the right to know that your biological father is dead."

I guess she was right, she usually is, but I still didn't want to. My mom was a sore spot with me. I'd walked away from her and her life when I was in my teens. She'd been a drug addict, a hooker, and in general, just a bad mother. After I completely cut her out of my life, I guess that was her wake up call, and she got herself straightened up, which I think is good and all, but why couldn't she have done it when I was a kid? She'd managed to get herself straightened out when she found out she was pregnant and stayed straight until I was three, but then she made a choice and that choice was drugs.

Don't I have a right to be a little resentful?

I would have been happy to live my life without ever hearing from her again, but as it turns out, my wife had met her back when our son Neil was a baby. Cinnamon and I hadn't reconnected yet, and my mom never told her she was, well _my _mom.

Then, my mom got a job as a house mother in a school for troubled boys. She took some of them to an episode of RAW that Cinnamon was at, and Cinnamon, recognized her and approached her. One thing lead to another and suddenly Donna Ambrose was back in my life and Cinnamon was trying to get the two of us to form a relationship. And I was having trouble with it.

But, after some serious thinking, I thought Cinnamon might be right, so I called my mother, who was delighted that _I_ called. Usually Cinnamon called her and if we were together, she'd hand me the phone and tell me to talk to her. But this time, it was all me. So, I told her about Creed and the bike and Kyle Ryvers. And she had gasped and gotten quiet, but finally admitted that yes, he was my biological father.

She didn't sound too horrified that he was dead, but did express sympathy. She was surprised that he gave me a motorcycle, but it was a weird surprised, like I wasn't sure if she was happy for me, that I'd found out I had a half brother and that my father had cared enough to give me something important, or if she was pissed off about it. I didn't care. I'd gotten her confirmation.

Meanwhile, Creed and I were having this text conversation back and forth, which was pretty cool. I hadn't had much of a chance to talk to him when he gave me the bike and I did want to get to know him. I was an only kid, and like most only kids, I often wished I had a brother or sister, mostly a brother. And now I did. And I wanted to get to know him better. And, I wanted to learn to ride that motorcycle.

The whole problem though, was that I work for the WWE and the WWE thinks they're gods of generosity if they allow you two days off a month. Sure sometimes you can get a couple of days here and there, but I wanted some serious time. I wanted to learn to ride that bike, I wanted to visit my brother and get to know him.

I shouldn't complain, the WWE gave me opportunities beyond belief, but it wasn't always fantastic. Before Shield reunited, I wasn't sure I liked what direction they were having me go in. But, because of that fire, where the three of us saved that family, they had gotten Shield back together and were smart enough not to break us apart. They allowed us to still win belts, in fact, it was nothing unusual for all of us to have belts and even rarer that at least one of us wasn't holding one of the top championships.

Right now it was Seth with the Universal Championship and Roman with the WWE World Heavyweight. Me? Nothing, but there was talk about my getting the IC belt. Yes, the brands are still split, but Shield? We go wherever we want, whenever we want.

But right now, I just wanted some serious time off.

I could fake an injury, but the problem with that was the WWE doctors would insist on checking me top to bottom, and even if my wife could find a doctor that would write me out, they wouldn't accept it. They would send me to their people.

I had asked and gotten time off once because my son fell down a well, I hardly knew the kid, and I had only recently connected with Cinnamon again. Yes, it's a long, involved story, but I got time off. It was put on the end of my contract though, so to me, it was time borrowed. But with Shield being hot, like we pretty much always were, even though I was the one without a belt, Vince and Hunter were likely to toss a fit if I asked for time off now.

When I expressed my frustration to Cinnamon about it, she agreed WWE was a little ridiculous about time off, I was mostly talking about it to her, because she's good at listening and letting me get things off my chest. But, at the end of it, she said something that got me thinking.

"Mox, the WWE needs _you_ more than you need _them."_

She always called me Mox when it was just the two of us, even on the phone, so that wasn't what stuck out. "What do you mean?"

"Without you, it's going to be very hard to have Shield. They can't just replace you, you know that, right?"

"Yeah, but all three of us are irreplaceable."

"Yes, but we're not talking about Roman and Seth, we're talking about _you_. You don't need the WWE." She was talking carefully, and I knew she was trying to tell me something without spelling it out. "We can survive on what we have. We can do more than survive, we can thrive. And if you want to stay in wrestling, well, you can write your own ticket anywhere. You could probably buy WVW and grow that as big as you wanted. So, please don't think you're stuck there."

"Okay," I said, although I was still confused.

"You don't ever have to worry that your family will walk away. You don't have to worry that you're going to end up having to scrounge to survive. You can walk away from WWE anytime you want, we'll weather the storm."

"If I break contract it could get pretty bad," I reminded her. "They might take us to court."

"If we had to pay the whole thing back, we could do it," Cinnamon said. "Even with the houses and all the work we're having to have done with the one, we'll be fine. You've never lived a high profile, expensive lifestyle and you know I don't either. With what we have, we can continue to live our lifestyle for the rest of our lives and still have a nice inheritance to leave Neil and Alice. And speaking of Alice, she's going to be waking up from her nap, soon. So, I can't stay on much longer."

"Yeah, give her a lot of cuddles from me," I said. "And raspberries on her belly, she _loves_ that." Alice was our daughter, named after Cinnamon's mother.

"I will," she said. "But Mox, I shouldn't have to spell this out for you, you know how to get time off if you need it."

And that was all she'd say about it. We both reminded each other we loved each other, so on and so forth, and I hung up still feeling a little confused. What was she talking about? I wanted to discuss it with Roman and Seth, but I knew they wouldn't want me to take time off. Shield was riding on a high, like we always seemed to be, but I'm sure they didn't want to have me gone so they would have to work around my absence.

Then, as I was thinking about this, one of the interns handed me the paper with my schedule for the next few weeks. I looked at where we'd be in a month and I grinned, suddenly knowing exactly what Cinnamon was getting at.

.

.

I called Creed first to make sure it was cool with him if I stayed for awhile. He hemmed and hawed for a bit, and at first I wondered if he was okay with texting, but not with hanging out with me, then I realized that he was afraid I'd get all judgmental about his house. I assured him I didn't care, because I really didn't.

The next step was to get the bike shipped to his place from Las Vegas. Yes, Cinnamon and I owned three houses. We had talked about selling the Vegas house, especially when we bought the old, abandoned farmhouse down the road because her little ranch house was too small for all of us. She still wanted to keep it, so the plan was to rent it out. I think she was thinking that if Neil went to a local college, he could live in the house if he wanted. Right now, it was being used by an old friend of both of ours, a wrestler named Jasper Coleman. He called WVW home, but he did some work for ROH and some other small promotions. He was also pretty good at basic home repair, so we were letting him stay there, rent free, just paying the utilities and keeping up on any repairs that needed to be made.

The Las Vegas place, I rented to a friend of mine I'd known in the Indies. He wasn't the greatest wrestler, but he did turn out to be a pretty good bouncer. I let him rent the place pretty cheap, with the stipulation that me and my family could stay there if we were in Vegas. He was fine with that, he even used the smallest bedroom, so the master was available, although I suspected he'd used the master room when he had "company" for the night. But, he did pay for a maid service to keep the place looking good. He was the type of friend who would be willing to be there when the bike was being picked up and make sure it was secured safely.

I used the same shipping company Creed had used to get the bike from Reno to Las Vegas. I'd been able to get to Vegas to check it out after it was delivered and as far as I could see, the bike hadn't suffered any damage. Because the trip was going to be a whole lot longer, the moving company recommended we get the bike prepped. Drain out fluids and all such. So, I made arrangements for that. Once it was set, according to my friend renting the Vegas place, they came and picked it up, and headed off with it.

This left me with only one thing to do.

.

.

It seemed to take forever, but we finally rolled into Denver to do a show. It was crucial that I be in Colorado for this. I'd done my research carefully enough. We got there on Sunday, but there wasn't a PPV. Most of Sunday me, Roman and Seth spent going to two radio stations and a local TV show, pumping people to come to RAW and Smackdown. The next day we did one really early morning TV appearance, then we had a few hours off. Seth ran off to do Crossfit because I think he's addicted to it. Seriously, the dude goes to Crossfit looking for all the world like he's going to score some sweet shit that's going to send him out of this world. Don't get me wrong, I like to work out too, and I feel weird on the days when I can't, but I don't go off to the gym with this gleam in my eye. Sometimes, when I see his gym bag, I joke that it's his "Works" and he's off to "Score." He doesn't find this nearly as amusing as I do.

Roman suggested we hit the gym, but I told him I had stuff to do and I'd catch up with him in the arena.

He looked at me, getting that furrow in his forehead, that "Worried Roman, is worried," look I knew so well. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," I said, and it was almost the truth. I was eager to get my plans underway, but I was nervous too. So, mix the two together and I think you get "Fine."

"You've been acting jumpy all day, are you _sure_ you're okay?"

I love this guy, he is my brother just a little bit more than Seth is. I would_ die_ for Roman, and I'm not exaggerating. But there are times like this when I sure wish he was a little less caring and perceptive. "I had too much coffee," I said, holding up my combination travel mug/French Press that Cinnamon bought me. "Cin came up with a new blend, mostly light roasts, which you know have more caffeine."

The last part was true about the blend, but that sure wasn't why I was jumpy.

"Dude, someday Seth and I are going to have to have an intervention about your coffee habit," He was grinning when he said it, so I knew things were cool. I do love good coffee, thanks to my wife, but I'm not as much of a coffee addict as you'd think. I have had days where I haven't drank it and I didn't get the blinding headache or any other symptoms of caffeine addiction. But, both Seth and Roman have it in their heads I drink too much coffee. I don't. I just drink very, _good_ coffee and I'm very vocal about that.

"I can handle it," I said, putting my hand on his shoulder in mock seriousness. "Don't worry, I've got it under control."

He laughed and I knew things were okay. Then he headed off for the gym and I headed off to do what I had to do.

.

.

The WWE runs on EST, at least for TV. This means that we have to be at the arena by 2:00 EST, no matter what the actual time is. So, I was supposed to report to the stadium at 12:00.

I reported at 2:45, strolling in one of the backstage entrances like I hadn't a care in the world. When one of the WWE security team barked at me that I was late, I grinned, a goofy look on my face and said, "I know, I lost track of time. Lemme go find the bosses and say I'm sorry." And before he could continue, I walked away.

I pretended to be lost backstage, even though I've been in this stadium a million times. Every once in awhile, if no one was around, I ducked into a corner to rub my eyes. I passed a lot of folks who told me both Vince and Hunter were looking for me, and I just kept giving that goofy grin, my eyes all red, nodding my head.

Finally, one of the interns found me and in an overly excited voice, told me that I was to come to Vince's office, _right this second_. That there was a meeting going on and I should have been there hours ago. He was about as arrogant and pissed off at me as an intern could get. But, I let him lead me to Vince's makeshift office. When I walked in, it was like some search party had gathered, ready to go hunting for me. Roman, Seth, Hunter, Vince, and even Stephanie were in there. I could tell their emotions had been flipping between concern that something happened and fury that if something _hadn't_ happened, I was messing everything up. I gave that goofy grin again. "Hey, sorry I'm late, shit happens, ya know?"

I am pretty casual with Hunter sometimes. I have been known to call him "Trips," and mess with him, but with Vince I am always businesslike. I don't swear, I don't backtalk. So, my little excuse of "Shit happens" had Vincent McMahon looking for a moment like someone had swatted him on the nose with a newspaper.

"Are you all right?" Roman and Seth asked, almost in unison. And then they both told me that they had been calling me and texting me for awhile.

"Oh, sorry," I said. "I turned off my phone, I didn't want anything harshing my mellow, ya know?"

Both of them, no, not just them, the entire room stared at me like I'd lost my mind. I frowned, looking confused. "Hey, everyone relax, I'm fine!" I flopped down on the sofa instead of taking one of the rigid chairs you were expected to sit at during meetings.

By this point, I was sure everyone had the same idea of what was wrong with me, but I wanted to drive the point home with a finale of complete overkill. I reached my hand into my pocket, and deliberately let a small baggie with pot in it fall to the floor. I'd had to switch that with the bag they'd sold it to me in, because that bag was so dark and sealed and I wanted to make sure they saw the product.

I pretended not to notice the bag falling to the floor, which was hard, because everyone was staring at it. Instead, I pulled out a vape pen and took a long hit.

"_Dean!"_ Seth was the first to scream at me, I think everyone else was too shocked. Except for Roman. He was just staring at me his expression unreadable.

"What?" I said, hoping the expression on my face said shock, surprise, a bit of hurt and a whole lot of, 'God, I'm wasted.' "It's _legal_ in Colorado."

And, that's how I got to take a piss test to check for marijuana usage. And it showed positive. That was a little trickier to manage. See, I don't smoke pot. I tried it when I was young and foolish, and it never did anything for me. The vape pen had not contained pot, or even nicotine, it had some cucumber and mint stuff for folks who were addicted to vaping and not to nicotine. How I got to fail the piss test was consuming CBD oil which was made from marijuana and not Hemp. Yeah, the guy at the pot store gave me some good education when I strolled in there, and he helped me out. The CBD oil was going to make me pop a positive, but it wasn't going to get me high, not that pot normally got me high, but just in case. And now I know more about marijuana and hemp than I ever cared to know.

Had I only pretended that I was high, I probably would have just gotten a fine, which wouldn't have worked. So, I had to be obnoxious about it. The whole time I was tested and lectured, I kept whining how it was legal in Colorado. They kept telling me that didn't matter, but I kept pretending I didn't hear them and going back to my whine, "But it's _legal!"_ I kept trying to hit off the vape pen too, and did a lot of whining when they took the pot I'd bought away from me. "It's _mine_, I _paid_ for it and it's _legal!"_ I really griped when they confiscate my vape pen.

I was told "They needed some time to think about my punishment," which was a huge bunch of bullshit that allowed them to let me go on RAW that night. To give them credit, they didn't let me actually wrestle, but I was allowed to go out with Roman and Seth and when Roman had a match, I was allowed on the commentary table.

As I expected, Seth read me the riot act when we all went out after the show for a drink. He also wouldn't let me drink, which pissed me off. "You've had enough mind altering substances today!" he said. "You're drinking juice!" And then he _flounced_ to the bar. Seth had a tendency to take things personally, and I'm sure he was all out of shape that I could claim to be his friend, his brother and still disappoint him by doing that evil weed.

Roman shook his head the moment Seth was out of earshot. "You're trying to get suspended, aren't you?"

I shrugged, but said nothing.

"Dean, this is stupid," He said, shaking his head. "I know it's tough to get time off, but to resort to _this?"_

"Hey, I scored a positive," I reminded him.

"Yeah, but you told me, more than once, that you had tried pot several times when you were a kid and it never affected you. Today you were acting like the love child of Jerry Garcia and Rob Van Daam," he pointed out. "You were putting it on and putting it on thick."

Again, I said nothing. I didn't disagree, but I didn't agree either.

"Whatever you've got to do, I hope it's important," he finally said, with a sigh. "You know this _will _get out. You've damaged your rep and it'll take some time before you earn it back, especially with the Powers That Be."

"Well," I said, shrugging. "Maybe you can give me some tips on how to get through it?"

He stared at me and I stared back. He'd been busted once. He claimed someone gave him some muscle building product to try and he didn't realize it had bad shit in it, but I don't know if that's true or not. Since he told me that, even when we were alone, I was inclined to believe him. He'd lie to the Powers that Be to save his ass, but not so much to me. But I was done with the lecture. If WWE didn't think they owned me 24/7, I wouldn't have to resort to these measures. "The only thing I feel bad about is leaving you and Seth to hold the bag," I finally said. "If I could have avoided that, I would have."

"We'll figure something out," Roman said, shaking his head. Unlike Seth, Roman had a hard time staying mad at me for long. Seth, on the other hand, was pissy all night, even though I drank nothing but orange juice.

.

.

The next day at the arena, just to keep driving it home, I made sure to tell whoever I thought would listen and run to Vince and Hunter, about how unfair it was for me to get busted when pot was legal in Colorado.

They let me do Smackdown, telling me they'd know what they were going to do with me at the end of the show. I was pretty sure that was bullshit, that they already knew, but I shrugged, refusing to show remorse. Again, I reminded them that it was _legal _in Colorado and pretended not to hear when they said that it didn't matter if it was legal or not, if was against policy for the WWE.

They couldn't just give me a fine. I'd been to brazen, too obnoxious about it. It would have looked like they were showing me favoritism. And, I think by this point, Vince was so tired of my whining and complaining that he just wanted me out of his sight.

I got a ninety day suspension, which was exactly what I wanted. The only thing I could have skipped was the walk of shame, where I had to go around to everyone in the locker room and say I was sorry. Some folks were cool, chalking it down to "Shit happens." But, some were awfully judgmental.

Seth shook his head and encouraged me to "Seek professional help," which told me Roman hadn't cued him in on what was going on. I honestly didn't know what would make Seth madder, me _doing_ drugs, or me _pretending_ to do drugs just to get some time off. So, I told him I'd seriously consider it.

Roman stared right into my eyes and said, "Take care of yourself." That's it. He wasn't mad anymore, I could tell.

I didn't even go home for a few days first, I figured I'd do that at the end when Creed and I went to West Virginia to bring my bike home. I'd have about thirty days to spend with them, if the time was right. I called Cinnamon and let her know what was going on. She assured me that everything would be fine, that she would let Neil know so he didn't find out from the cheat sheets.

I knew Cinnamon would understand, I knew Alice was too young to know what was going on, but I was worried about Neil. He's fourteen and he's at the age where he's probably been offered pot and maybe even other drugs. He claims he's not interested, and I believe him, but still, it's going to be hard for me to give him some lecture when I was busted. Also, Neil wants to be a wrestler. Not like an idol, passing, fantasy, he's wanted this since he was a little kid. He misses me, but he also seems to think that I'm doing the most important thing in the world, and thus, it's worth all the time I'm gone. If I tell him the truth, that I did this to get some time off, I'm not sure how he's going to react.

I don't give that kid enough credit sometimes. When I was at the airport, getting ready to fly to Michigan, I got a text from Neil.

**I guess this is like that time you took time off when I was hurt? Except that WWE wouldn't just give you time off?**

I stared at that message and finally said, _**Yeah, it is like that. And I'm not proud of it. What I did was wrong**__. _

**Yes, it was.**That kid was sometimes more of an adult than I am. **But you took time off to help with me, to get to know me. I was your kid but we never even met until I was nine. You never met your father, you never met your half brother. You have the right to get to know them. I know you can't get to know your dad, for real, but Uncle Creed can tell you all about him. You have the right to get to know him.**

_**I suppose your Mom told you the truth? **_

**Yes. I was kinda pissed at first. Not just because you did it, but because you're not heading out here to spend time with us. But I get it now.**

_I__**'ll be spending some time with you and the family. I got ninety days, I'm hoping I'll be able to ride that bike fast enough that me and your Uncle Creed can ride to the house and I'll have thirty days or so**__. _

_**That's great, I really want to meet him. **_

I would have said more, but they announced my flight, so I told him I loved him and then turned off my phone. Then, I got up, grabbing my bag and headed to the plane.

* * *

Thanks to everyone who's reviewed me. And thanks to those who F/F, or even just read it and enjoyed it. So, did anyone think Dean would get himself suspended just to get time off?


	4. Chapter 4

Since this is a story where motorcycles play a huge part, instead of my usual stupid jokes and other dumb stuff, how about we do some quotes and wisdom about motorcycles.

"Faster, faster, faster, until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death..." – Hunter Thompson

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**Chapter Four**

{o}-{o}-{o}

_**Creed**_

As much as I wanted to see Dean, I sure was glad I had a few weeks, because I had some things I needed to do before I wanted him to visit.

I felt obligated to finish the floor to the church and to do it as carefully as when I started, no rushing through it. Fortunately, I was close enough to done that I just spent all my free time on it, rather than just some. But, when I was done, it was pretty good if I do say so myself. I advised them before I even started that with the traffic the room would have, they should splurge a bit on good plywood with a nice, hardwood, veneer. They went all the way and bought plywood with an oak veneer, _expensive_ plywood, but a lot cheaper than a hardwood floor. Even though felt perfectly smooth when I got it, I sanded it with 100 grit sandpaper, all the way up to 340. I can't describe it with justice, but if you have ever had the chance to touch well sanded wood before it's treated with stain or painted, you'll know what I'm talking about, it has an almost velvet texture to it. It's nothing like touching metal, hard plastic, or glass, it's unique to wood. I used wood conditioner on it, then stained it dark, just like they wanted. Then, I primed it with a clear, latex primer and put epoxy on it. It gave the floor that mirror shine look, and the epoxy would keep it looking good and easy to clean.

The congregation was thrilled, which was about all the reward/payment I needed. They marveled at it and exclaimed how they couldn't believe it wasn't a true hardwood floor. They did invite me to church services, but they weren't pushy about it. I told them I'd check in with them every so often to see how the floor was holding up. And before you go thinking I'm a saint? I also knew that if these folks needed or wanted something similar done for their house, they would think of me, call me, and _pay_ me for my trouble. So, it was free advertising, too.

Now I could work on Dad's bedroom, at least making it sleep worthy. Which meant I needed a bed at the very least.

I've mentioned before that the house looked like it was a shack, at least on the outside. The inside was another matter. If Dad hadn't developed a love affair with heroin, I think he would have been able to make a lot more out of himself, because he couldn't just build bikes, or do amateur wrestling, he could also work with wood and build just about anything you can think of. The inside of the house was his perpetual project and I was his constant helper. It may have looked a little rustic on the inside, my mom and my sister thought it did, but I knew the work that had gone into it. I didn't know if Dean would appreciate it, or think my father and I lived like primitive savages, but I didn't have time to redo the inside of the house, nor did I really want to. I'd settle for making Dad's old room into a real bedroom again.

I wasn't made of money, and you can bet the Horse's Bass didn't pay all that great, but I did have some money left over from what Dad had put aside to get the bike to Dean. I used that to get a California king "mattresses in a box" on the internet. Not one of the expensive, name brands, I think this one came from Walmart or some place like that, but figured it would work. I sure hoped he wasn't bullshitting me about being used to living a low key lifestyle. I knew he'd grown up in the projects, even before he told me, that was the type of information you'd find all over the net, but he'd left those days behind. And being city poor and country poor are two different things.

I built a platform bed, making a frame with four decent planks I sanded down to that velvet smoothness, rounded off the edges, and stained with a dark stain. I made legs using a lathe, and I made nine of them, three on each side, three down the middle, so I could raise the bed a little higher than most platform beds, and make it strong enough so that if he took it in his head to jump on it, it wouldn't break. For the slats, I used regular 2 x 4's, which I also sanded smooth as I could. It wasn't as important for it to be velvet smooth, the mattress would sit on top of it, but I just wanted to be sure if he decided to really check out the bed, he'd know it wasn't some half assed job. I even stained those, although that wasn't really necessary either.

I finished it by taking pieces of wood Dad and I had leftover from different projects, cutting them into strips, sanding them, staining them, and putting them on the wall to give the impression of a headboard. I ran it a foot beyond the bed and put some small shelves to act as nightstands. It looked good when I was done, at least my father and I would have thought it did. Mom would have rolled her eyes and said, "Bed frames aren't expensive, just go _buy_ one for christ's sake."

Dean's bike arrived, and I got to make sure it arrived in good condition, and road ready, which didn't take long. I was doing my best to think of it as Dean's bike, not my dad's, but it was hard not to picture my dad on it when I finished. I looked through my phone, and found a good picture of my dad on the bike, before he was really looking like shit and sent it off to Dean. _"This is the guy who built your bike." _

"_**Cool, I'm going to keep this." **_came the response, about an hour and a half later.

.

.

Despite all my worrying, I was mostly ready for Dean about a week before he arrived. I used that time to hustle up whatever I could. I worked every shift I could get at the Horse's Bass, and took other odd jobs. One of Dad's friends owned a handyman company that my dad worked for a lot before he got sick. Calvin, the owner had told me as long as I was as good as my Dad, he'd throw work my way. So, I gave him a call, and it turned out he was busy enough that he threw me a lot of work. I got to help him replace a couple of front porches that had rotted away, built a shed that someone had bought in a kit then realized he didn't have a clue on how to get it together, and help build a deck. I was glad the work was outdoors, that it never rained, and I had a chance to work with my hands.

Maybe I'd never get my dream of becoming a wrestler, but if I couldn't do that, I'd find a way to survive using my hands. Maybe I'd build bikes, or become a cabinet and custom furniture maker. As long as I never had to worry about sitting at a desk all day and pushing paper, I didn't care. I'd _hated_ school, even though my teachers kept telling my mom and dad that I was smart, I just didn't apply myself. That always made Mom flip out, but Dad understood. "Some folks are book smart, and that's their gift. You're good with your hands, that's your gift."

When the week was out, Cal paid me well and told me not to be a stranger, that he would be happy to give me whatever work he could, letting me know that his business had grown so he could probably use me all year round. I told him I'd think about that seriously, but I needed some time off right now to take care of some personal business.

I hadn't told anyone Dean Ambrose was coming to my house. I knew I should tell Janis at least, but then again, Dad hadn't told Janis that Dean Ambrose was her half brother. I decided I'd wait until he was here and then play it by ear. I'd tell him about her at some point, but it would be up to him if he wanted to meet her. I wasn't sure what Dean would want to do when he was here, besides learning how to ride, but I was pretty sure he didn't want to be the big celebrity visiting the small town. How we were going to avoid him being recognized when we left the house was a problem I figured I'd work out with him. He probably had experience with it.

.

.

He showed up late afternoon on a Wednesday. He'd texted me on Monday, telling me he would likely have to do RAW and Smackdown, then he would come out here, and asked me not to check the cheat sheets and internet BS until he was there. Which made me wonder what the heck was going on and having to sit on my hands, least I start texting him to ask him and be a general pain in the ass. But, then he rolled into my driveway, in a silver Mitsubishi Mirage, such a low profile car, I wasn't sure if it was him until he started getting out of it, practically having to unfold himself as he did. He reminded me of a cat, climbing out of a tissue box, making me wonder how he got in there in the first place.

I had been sitting on the front porch, drinking a beer. Not guzzling, but sipping it slowly, part of me wondering if he'd show up today, tomorrow, maybe not at all. Now that he was here, I wasn't sure what I should do. I mean, he was my half brother and all, but he was still Dean Ambrose. I wasn't quite ready to leap into his arms and go, "Big brother!" But, I did figure it was okay to walk out to greet him, which I did, leaving my beer on the little table on the front porch. While I made that walk to the car, which seemed to take forever, he went around and opened the trunk and pulled out a duffel bag.

"Hi," I said, when I was almost next to him, as he closed the trunk of the car.

"Hey, little brother!" The question of physical contact was soon over, as he draped his free arm around my shoulder and pulled me in for a half hug which I returned, thinking, _Holy shit, he hugged me like a normal person! _Because, yeah, I'm a little dense at times and I don't care if we shared a father, her was still Dean Ambrose and I hadn't grown up with him.

"H-how was the trip?" I asked.

He rolled his eyes. "It was a plane trip. I mean, first class is a billion times better than coach, but still, layover in Chicago, the whole bit. Then, I got to the airport and it was the usual rental car bullshit, then I got to drive here in that tin can." He jerked his thumb in the direction of the Mirage. "I feel like I was stuffed in the _trunk_ of that thing for a few hours."

"Why didn't you rent a bigger car?" I asked.

He shrugged. "The only other car they had was this huge, black as midnight SUV with tinted windows. From what you told me about where you lived, I didn't want to look too big and splashy, you know? I didn't come here to play ambassador for the WWE, I came here to get to know you and learn to ride my bike. How is it, by the way?"

"It's fine," I said. "No damage from shipping. I looked it over, got it back into working order and took a ride on it. She's great."

"Good! I can't wait to learn."

I grinned. We were walking towards the house while having this exchange. He barely seemed to notice the house, the weathered shingles and shakes that my dad and I made, mostly by hand, from logs he got from a buddy who had a tree removal service. Dad had used vinegar to make them look aged, then gave it a couple years, and when everything looked nice, gray, and like the house the Clampets lived in before Uncle Jeb struck oil, he put wood sealer on it. Chances are, they would last longer than vinyl siding and normal shingles, but you'd have to know something about hand made shakes and shingles to understand that.

Mom always hated that look, and made a lot of noise about it. I liked it though. Maybe it made the house look like a hovel to some people, but to me, it looked more natural. And, my dad was of the opinion that he'd just as soon not have the place looking too tempting to possible thieves, especially because we lived in the middle of nowhere. From the outside, if you didn't know decent craftsmanship, the place probably looked like we didn't have a pot to piss, even if we did have a few windows to throw it out of.

When we walked inside, he looked around and nodded. "I like it, it has a warm, cabin type of feeling to it," he said.

I nodded, attempting to cover how pleased I was that it had passed approval. Our living room had wood walls, again, that my father and I had put up, using real wood planks, not some thin, mid 20th century fake pine paneling, this was the real deal, and stained a golden color.

"Let me show you where you'll be sleeping," I said, heading to the master bedroom. My dad had added the master bedroom when my mother was expecting me, because the house only had two bedrooms. Janis had been moved into the former master bedroom, no doubt to appease her for having to share Mom with some little interloper on the way, who she'd have to call her brother. I got the smallest room, which didn't bother me when I was growing up, and it didn't bother me now. I wasn't ready to move into the master bedroom, and I was glad for that, so I could let Dean use it.

I believed my dad had built the master bedroom to appease my mom as well as add some much needed room. It was easily the biggest room in the house, unless you put the kitchen and living room together, and even then it might be a bit bigger. The king sized bed looked normal in it, not like it was over-sized for the space, as king beds often did in bedrooms. Dad had added a master bathroom with a walk in shower and a large soaking tub, along with a twin vanity with two sinks. He wasn't a plumber, but he knew a few plumbers who had helped him. And, as the final "let's impress mom" he'd built a huge, walk in closet, which I had the feeling, looking at the duffel bag, Dean wouldn't need at all.

When I opened the door and let Dean walk in, he stopped in the doorway, dropped his bag on the ground and stared around. "Holy shit," he said, his voice half whisper, half exclamation.

I wasn't sure what he was commenting on, but I didn't have long to wait as he walked over to the wall.

My dad was a bit of a music freak, which I'm sure isn't surprising, considering he'd named me after a band, but it extended further than just naming his kid. When Dad was younger, he always seemed to have money for three things, records, equipment to play them on, and drugs. You'd think that the third would have lead to him having to hock most of the first and the second, but somehow, he always managed to get by without having to sacrifice them.

He used to store a lot of his records and stereo equipment in the shop outbuilding, and there was still a stereo out there with a CD player. But when Mom left, he figured he could move his music into the house and he'd built shelves into most of the walls, the perfect size for record albums and filled them up with his music. He'd also built a place for his stereo and his beloved record player.

Dean pulled out one of the albums and looked at it. Bob Segar and The Silver Bullet Band, _Smokin' OP's._ He looked at it carefully, studying the record itself, the outside of it, then back at me. "Is this _new?"_ Lately, LP's were making a comeback, so the question wasn't that odd.

I shook my head. "Dad had his favorite bands that he always got multiple copies of their albums if he could. And he was _really_ careful with his records. A lot of times, he only played them to make cassette tapes, and later CD's and MP3's. Those he'd wear out and then make another copy."

He carefully put _Smokin' OP's_ back where it had been, and walked over to another wall, and pulled out another album. "Grateful Dead, _Terrapin Station_," he said, sounding absolutely delighted.

"Are you a big Dead fan?" I asked.

He shook his head. "I like 'em, but my wife's mother _really_ loved them. My wife grew up listening to Grateful Dead songs being sung by her mother instead of lullabies, so she's got a weakness for them."

I nodded and watched as he walked around the shelves, carefully removing albums, and carefully putting them back. I could tell he wasn't just putting it on, or being both impressed and a little amused as if my dad's album collection was a bit freaky, he was genuinely delighted to find out this fact about our father. "Is your mother into music, too?" he asked.

I shook my head, and I must have gotten a sour look to my face, because he frowned. "Did I say something wrong?"

"No," I said. "It's just… mom and I don't see eye to eye on pretty much everything." I figured if he was going to be my half brother, I could be honest with him. "My dad tried everything he could to keep her from leaving him. She didn't care. She seemed to hate him by the time she left him, and she would tell me all the time what an asshole he was. I was a kid and I adored my Dad. I didn't want to hear that crap."

He sighed and nodded. "I get it. But, the drugs couldn't have made it easy on her, on all of you."

"He wasn't taking drugs when she left him," I said. "He'd been stone sober for six months. He went back to them after she left him, I think because he just felt like he'd failed. I never could get him to understand _nothing_ was going to make Mom happy at that point. The relationship was over and done with."

He nodded. I suspected that having dealt with a drug addict mother most of his life, that he had more sympathy for my mother, but he didn't say anything else. Instead he looked over at the bed. "Wow, nice bed."

"Thanks," I said, then, thinking he was probably wondering where Dad had died, said, "I made the bed after Dad died and that's a new mattress."

"You _made_ this?" He looked amazed. "Like by _hand?"_

"I have power tools," I said, grinning. "But, yeah, I made it. It wasn't hard."

"Are you a furniture maker?" He'd walked over to the bed and sat down on it, testing it out.

"I can make a lot of furniture," I admitted. "My dad could, and he taught me." I was wondering if after his long day, he might want to relax, so I said, "I'll let you settle in. There's a master bathroom over there." I nodded my head in the direction of the door. "And, there's a walk in closet over there." I looked at his duffel bag and grinned. "You'll have plenty of room."

He laughed. "Yeah, I travel light. I hope you have a washer and dryer I can use, because a lot of my clothes need a good cleaning."

"Sure," I said. "I can put a load in now for me, if you want to give me the bag."

"Really? Thanks. I would be willing to do it myself, but if you're offering, I won't refuse." He unzipped the bag and pulled out a smaller bag that I suspected was his toiletries. And, he pulled out a pair of gym shorts that looked brand new and a package of t-shirts still in the plastic wrap. He took a few other things out of the bag, non clothing things like a couple pictures in frames a computer tablet, and a pair of sneakers, then he handed me the bag. "You can even throw the bag in the wash, too."

"You can fold your own stuff when it's done," I said, taking the bag. "I suck at folding."

He grinned. "It's a deal. Would it bother you if I got changed and went running? All that sitting time on the plane and the ride has me twitchy."

I nodded, but added, "Would you like to work out instead? One of the outbuildings has some work out equipment." I was a little worried about the makeshift gym my father and his friends had made, but there sure wasn't a Golds or something nearby.

"Sure," he said, nodding. "I'll check it out."

I nodded, and took the duffel bag with the dirty clothes in it, and went off to the washer and dryer. I went through the clothes, and they all seemed to be everyday stuff that I could put in one "Normal" load, including the bag itself. So, I dumped it all in, threw in the detergent, the oxy booster and a sheet to keep the colors from mixing, in case one of his red t-shirts was still bleeding. Yes, I know how to do laundry. I learned out of self defense, because my dad just threw everything together and washed it on hot, which left me with lots and lots of pink gym socks and other supposed to be white clothes, and T-shirts that didn't cover my stomach. Dad never seemed to care about wearing pink tinted t-shirts, but I sure did.

By the time I had the load started, Dean was in the kitchen, helping himself to a glass of water, which made me feel good, that he felt at home enough to get himself a glass from the cupboard. But I nodded to the refrigerator. "We have one of those filter pitches in there with cold water, if you'd prefer."

"Thanks, I'll remember that in the future," he said. "But right now, I just needed some water and I wasn't feeling very picky. This isn't bad water though," he added, draining the glass.

"We've got a pretty good well," I admitted. "Like most wells, the water is a little on the hard side, but I like it too."

"Minerals give it taste," he said, finishing the glass and putting it in the sink. "Okay, show me your work our area."

.

.

We went to the outbuilding and I opened the door. He walked in and let out a low whistle as I turned on the lights. "I'm impressed!"

I shrugged, hoping he was being sincere. As I've said, Dad put it together with things he could build, scavenge, and stuff he got at garage sales. I always knew it was a good gym, but it sure didn't look like some modern affair. We had some chains bolted to the floor, some chin up bars set up, a lot of stuff that was once one thing that had been re-purposed, like huge truck tires. And, it had a ring in it. Not a WWE sized ring, this was a home made 18' ring, but when Dad did amateur professional wrestling, he and some of the other guys in the tiny promotion would practice here. This is where Dad trained me too.

"Was your, I mean, _our_ dad a boxer?" he asked, going over to the ring.

I almost lied. Don't ask me why, but I was nervous to tell him our dad was a wrestler. Dean had made it to the very top of wrestling, and my dad hadn't gotten very far off the bottom. I'm sure Dean would never have heard of him. The tiny promotion Dad wrestled for was about a step above a couple of kids putting together a ring in their backyard and doing shows for free. But, I couldn't keep the information from him forever. "No," I said. "He-he was a wrestler." I should have left it at that, but I found myself hastily adding, "Not one you ever would have heard of or anything, he was, well, let's just say he did it more as a hobby."

While I stumbled over my words, he had climbed into the ring, walking around, bouncing on the balls of his feet, pulling at the ropes and checking out the turnbuckles. But when I said "wrestler," he turned to look at me. And when I finished, he grinned. "That's awesome!"

Had he heard what I said _after_ I said he was a wrestler? "Uh, he was pretty amateur."

"Did he wrestle in front of an audience?"

I nodded. "There used to be this little promotion in town. It was almost more like a guys club thing than a real promotion. My dad and other guys in town who knew how to wrestle would put on shows on Saturday at the Armory or at the gym in the school in town. You might have caught on when you drove here, that Merriford is not exactly a big town. There wasn't much to do, so, they'd put on shows and people would come because it was better than watching paint dry."

"If he performed for people, then he was a professional wrestler." He was running the ropes as he spoke, graceful and easy. "Was he professionally trained or self taught?"

"A bit of both," I said. Part of me itched to join him, run the north and south while he ran east and west. My father and I used to do that, when he was showing me wrestling moves. "When he was barely eighteen, he went to *SPWA for a month, and learned a lot. But he learned other stuff by watching and doing."

"SPWA?" He paused and the grin on his face got even bigger.

"Yeah, I know, the same one Reigns family owns," I said. "The place was really new then, too. I think my dad was in one of the first group campers, if not_ the_ first."

"That's awesome!" Dean said, nodding. "So, my _biological_ dad was trained by my _surrogate_ dad."

I'd heard the Reigns had taken him in as their surrogate son from one of the sites on the internet, and now it was being confirmed. I wasn't sure how I felt about it. Part of me, most of me in fact, thought it was cool. He hadn't had much of a family, and now he did. But, a very small part of me was jealous. Not at him, but at the Reigns. That they had claimed him before I even knew we were related.

"What about you?" He asked.

"What do you mean?" I stared at him.

"Did your dad ever show you anything about wrestling?" he asked.

I should have just come clean, but I was still nervous. He took Dad being this amateur professional wrestler (and I know how weird that sounds, but I don't know how else to put it. Scripted wrestling is professional wrestling) really well, but I wasn't even worthy to be called an amateur. I was just a kid that had been trained by my dad. I settled for a half truth. "A little."

Then, he said the words I both dreaded and wanted to hear so badly. "Well then, get in the ring and show me what you got."

* * *

_*** SPWA**_ _Samoan Pride Wrestling Academy. Those of you who are following the "I'm Free" series know about it. It's the school Roman's father, and oldest brother Marc run. I never went into much of the history of Roman's family in my "main" world, I could use the same background for Roman. It's just in this world, Mox was never found as a teenager by the Reigns family._

_**Author's Notes:**_ Thank you to everyone who wished Husband well last Friday. He is home now. The next step is for him to get into physical therapy and see if that helps him.


	5. Chapter 5

Okay, for Dean, instead of motorcycle quotes, I'll do wrestling quotes instead:

_We don't practice until we can get it right. We practice until we can't get it wrong.  
-_Unknown

If I use a quote that is "Unknown" and you know who first wrote it/ said it, let me know. I get these quotes from random websites.

.

**Chapter Five**

{o}-{o}-{o}

.

_**Dean**_

.

Maybe it's because I hang out with wrestlers and we're all supposed to be larger than life, but I don't know if I'd_ ever_ met someone so unaware of his own abilities than my brother.

I was all prepared to go, "No, you're not bad, but you need some training…" and what I'd really mean was, _ You have a long way to go, kid. Be glad you're good at this building stuff." _

Nope. Our father must have taught him well, because the kid is _good_. Yeah, he's nowhere near ready for the WWE, and he could benefit from a couple weeks at SPWA himself, but he also could join WVW and train as he learned, too.

Most of what he needs to learn is presence. On that, he sucks. I asked him to do a promo and he turned bright red and shook his head. This was after we'd gotten in a mock match where he proved he could handle the top ropes, which people love. Again, he's not a true high flier, but give him some training, and he will be. He _can_ get air. I'd love to see him and Seth in a rivalry.

"Are you scared to talk?" I asked, "Because 90% of wrestling is being able to talk smack."

"I know," he said. We were sitting on the edge of the ring, relaxing after the mock match. "I just.. well, dad was good at talking shit."

"What would you- our dad have said?"

"If he had been wrestling you instead of me?" he answered my question with a question.

"Yeah, that works."

He thought for a moment. "If it had been before the match? And you were going on the two of you being father and son in the ring too?"

I shrugged, "sure, that works too." I honestly didn't care what the set up was, I just wanted to see an example of what our father would have done.

"We'll say that the two of you were feuding before. You beat him the last time, but it might have been a controversial win." He stroked his chin as he did this thinking out loud thing and setting up the scene. "In that case, he would have grabbed onto that. You know, 'Yeah, you little pissant, technically you won, but that's only because the referee is blind. You think you're the greatest wrestler ever? I'm here to tell you the only reason why you have any talent at all is because you're related to me, and what you got from me was watered down by your mom. You're worthless. You should have never been born and tonight, I'm going to send you back to the almighty soul machine where you can wait to be reborn again, but hopefully with some damned talent."

As he said this, his voice changed intensity until he wasn't just saying "what dad would have said" but saying it as if our dad was saying it, his voice getting meaner and colder. "Okay, that's pretty intense," I admitted. It wasn't anything I'd hadn't heard before, but it was still harsh, especially in the delivery. And I had a funny feeling he might have actually heard his father say those things. Like _maybe_ the two of them had been rehearsing something like this. And then Dad sick.

He shrugged, his face flushing. "It was a small promotion and it was the same people most of the time. Eventually, everyone feuded with everyone, so to keep it interesting, things got meaner and meaner and more personal. This is a small town, everyone hangs out, so they _really_ had to sell it, because it's hard to believe that the two guys you saw out drinking the night before at the bars were really sworn enemies. So, they came up with storylines and promos that went way over the top. Blaming each other for stealing their women, so on and so forth. My mom hated it. Not just because she hates wrestling in general, but because more than a few times, another wrestler insinuated they were sleeping together behind my dad's back."

I could understand that. Cinnamon loves wrestling with a passion, but once, when she was pregnant with Alice, Vince and Trips asked her if she would be willing to be part of a story line where the implication was that Alice wasn't my baby, but the kid of another wrestler. I can't even remember who the wrestler was supposed to be, but I remember Cinnamon refusing flat out. Cinnamon is a sweet woman, she really is, but when you piss her off, watch out, and that pissed her off _completely._ The storyline was scrapped and they've never asked her to be involved in a storyline since. I think Dan, the creative head, is scared of her now. Even Trips says hello to her carefully, trying to gauge her mental temperature in case she's decided she's still upset about it and might want to rip him a new one.

"I'm surprised your dad didn't try to bring you into it," I said.

"Mom wouldn't even _think_ of allowing that," he said. "And even though I lived with Dad, anything like that had to be agreed on by both of them."

"What about when you turned eighteen?"

He looked away, "The promotion was almost gone by then and my dad was sick." He sniffled once, then looked back at me. "There really wasn't any point."

I nodded. I had the feeling the kid was covering something and I also had a feeling what it was. It was pretty obvious this kid didn't just learn wrestling as a way to bond with his dad. "If the promotion had lived on, would you have joined it? I mean, let's say our Dad hadn't gotten sick, so you wouldn't have to take care of him, would you have joined?"

He nodded.

The last tooth to pull. "Creed, I have to ask you, do you want to be a professional wrestler? I'm not talking about some fantasy you have sometimes, I'm talking serious here, do you want to be a professional wrestler? Knowing that you might never make it much higher than the indies, knowing that you'll likely have to have another job, that you might never be able to support yourself on wrestling alone. Would you _still_ like to be a professional wrestler?"

He nodded again, and his face flushed red.

"Bro, don't be embarrassed," I said. "If anyone understand _that _dream, it's me."

He let out a short laugh, "Yeah, that's true. I'm just used to people around here, except for some of my dad's friends thinking wrestling is something kids want to do, but not serious adults. Or, something that guys like my dad did as an interesting hobby."

"Being a serious adult is highly overrated," I said, then added, "If you are serious, if you really do want to be a professional wrestler, I'm willing to help. I can even train you some while I'm here."

"How are we going to do that with all you have to do?" he asked, looking bewildered.

"Do you plan on taking all day to teach me to ride? All day, _every_ day?"

He shook his head. "I do want to take some day trips, but that won't be for a while. The more practice before we head off, the better, but we're still going to take it slow and easy, If we start out with you riding all day, you'll get the worst case of bike butt ever."

"Okay then, how about we work on teaching me to ride the motorcycle in the mornings and in the afternoons, I'll teach you more about wrestling."

He nodded and I could see that gleam in his eyes that reminded me of my son's whenever I suggested I teach him some wrestling. "As long as you don't mind having to spend time wrestling, when you're trying to take a break from it."

Part of me was starting to wonder how emotionally attached he was to this place. I know it was where he grew up with his father, but he _had _to know that being a professional wrestler meant he was going to travel. Would he be willing to relocate now? Because I was pretty sure I could get him into WVW and he could learn and train at the same time. I could have sent him to SPWA, Sefa would take him on my word, no try out needed, but he was good enough to be a WVW wrestler, not just a trainee. And something told me, it would be good for the kid to start facing a crowd. WVW might be a tiny promotion, but they had some good talkers. And if he got along with his father's crowd, he'd probably get along well with these guys. There were a lot of guys in WVW who knew they'd never make it to the WWE and likely didn't want to. They had their weekday jobs and earned their living, WVW was a fun hobby.

I didn't want to dump too much on the kid's shoulders though, and I know that sounds weird, but I had the feeling if I started telling him how good he was, how he was so much better than he gave himself credit for, he'd shy away. Someone had spent a lot of time making sure my half brother didn't realize how good he was at a lot of things, and I had a feeling that it _wasn't _our father.

We did a little more wrestling, then we both used the gym to work out. He didn't bother with working specific areas like so many wrestlers do, he worked his whole body, working on one area for 15 minutes, then take a break to drink some water, then working another area for fifteen minutes. "How much do you weigh?" I asked.

He shrugged. "The last time I weighed myself, 165."

Yeah, get a little more muscle on him, and he'd be a shoe-in for cruiser weight.

.

We worked out together until I felt my stomach gurgling, reminding me that the last thing I'd eaten was a horrible breakfast sandwich at the airport. I checked my phone, and saw it was getting towards six. I also saw that Neil, Cinnamon, and Roman had texted me, likely return texts when I notified them that I'd arrived here safely. But, I went to read them asking, "Hey, are you getting hungry?"

Creed nodded. "And this is where I have to give you the bad news."

"Oh?" I looked at him as I texted back some form of Emoji, the universal signal of, "Yep, got your response, and I'll talk to you when I have something worth saying."

"I'm not a great cook," he said, looking a little red as if he was worried that I expected him to be the next Gordon Ramsey. "I mean, I can fry things and throw stuff in a crock pot, or put it in an oven and set the timer, but if you were hoping for some really good home cooking, you aren't going to get it here."

"That's okay, I'm not spoiled," I said. "I like basic food. But right now, I could _really_ go for a burger." I started to envision one in my mind.

"A burger?" he repeated as if I suggested pheasant under glass or something. "I might have some ground beef in the-"

"One of those big, extra greasy cheeseburgers," I interrupted, describing my vision. "With fried onions, cooked in the fat from the burger and cooked so long that they've caramelized. And fries cooked in oil so old that the fries are almost black when they come out. On a big bun that was grilled in whatever meat juice the onions didn't need."

He grinned. "You want a _bar_ burger."

"Yeah!" My mental burger now had an ice cold draft beer next to it, and it was about the most perfect thing in the world. I could imagine Roman staring in horror at it. _"Dean, why not just eat a bowl of sugar frosted lard flakes?"_ "Is there any place around here we can go and find such a thing?"

He nodded, but bit his lower lip and hesitated. "I know of one place that has burgers like you're describing. But… I work there sometimes."

"Okay," I was puzzled at his reluctance. "Did you tell them you were sick or something to get time off?"

"No." He shook his head, "I asked for time off. Right now, because of my dad, I don't have a steady job, I just do what I can to keep body and soul together. So, I just told Dale, the owner that I wasn't going to be able to work for a bit."

"So, what's the problem, then?" I asked.

More hesitation before he spoke, "It's the bar a lot of my dad's friends hang out in. And a number of them are _real_ wrestling fans. And, uhm, you're Dean Ambrose." While he spoke, he went over to a large container of those germ killing wet wipes, and pulled some out, and began wiping down the stuff we'd used. When I grinned, he said, "My dad built this gym for himself and the guys in the promotion, because he had the land. So, he taught me to clean up the stuff. And the guys did too. I know it's just the two of us, but it's a habit."

"It's okay," I said. "I don't think you're a germaphobe or something," I said. "And let me guess, you're worried I'll be recognized."

He nodded. "There are two dive bars on either side of town. My-my Mom owns the Spirited Heron and that's a no wrestling allowed on the TV's bar. The other, the one with the awesome burgers is where all the wrestling fans go."

"Does your mother's bar have awesome burgers?" I asked, deciding to ignore that my brother worked at his mother's competition. That was some _serious_ disliking going on there.

He shook his head. "Mom's bar doesn't even have a grill. She's got two deep fat fryers and a thing for dispensing chilli and melted cheese. She makes the best nachos around. And deep fried hotdogs." _Deep fried hotdogs? _I thought. _I need to try those while I'm here. Either they're awesome or disgusting, I don't see middle ground._

"Okay," I said. "Well, don't worry." He was done with his cleaning up, and as we headed for the door, I draped my arm around his shoulder, as I might have done a million times if we'd grown up together. "I knew my celebrity status might be a problem when I visited, and I have worked out a solution."

"Okay," he said, grinning as we walked out the door. "But it better be a good one."

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Anyone want to venture a guess how Dean plans to disguise himself? And if it will work?


	6. Chapter 6

"Life is not a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in one pretty and well preserved piece, but to skid across the line broadside, thoroughly used up, worn out, leaking oil, shouting GERONIMO!" - Unknown

* * *

.

**Chapter Six**

{o}-{o}-{o}

.

_**Creed**_

.

I stared at my half brother. "_This_ is your great plan?" I asked him. "_This_ is going to make it so people don't recognize you?"

"Yep," he said, trying to hand me something. "You're going to help me. You'll see, it'll be great."

I took the item carefully. "I don't know about this. Does your wife know you're doing this? Does the _WWE_ know you're doing this? I hear you aren't supposed to make changes in your appearance without talking to them first."

He laughed, "First, my wife and I agreed the first time we dated, that our hair was our hair and we didn't have to consult each other on what we did with our own hair. Second, I've got ninety days off, dude, by the time I go back, it'll be short, but not ridiculously short. So, do it, shave my head."

I looked at the clippers again. "Okay, but if you wife gets pissed off at me, you'd better defend me." His hair wasn't as long as mine, but I didn't think it was short enough so that in ninety days it wouldn't look as if it were still growing back from being shaved.

"Look, it's my hair and my life," he said. "Cinnamon won't mind at all. And as for the WWE? If they bitch I'll tell them they made me shave my head in rehab."

"Rehab?" I stared at him.

"It's a long story, and I'll tell you about it at dinner tonight," he said, waving his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, I didn't do drugs, they just think I did. In the meantime, I am _dying _for that bar burger and those horrible fries, so please, let's shave my head so we can get going."

_They _think_ he did drugs? _I thought, and I really wanted to know, but I had the feeling he was going to be stubborn about this one and I wouldn't hear one word until we were shoving cheeseburgers in our mouths.

We went out in the backyard and he sat on one of the patio chairs, so as not to get hair all over the house. I'd never used clippers before, but they weren't too hard. It was more of a pain in the ass to run an extension cord out the window to power them. And when that was done, I used his shaving cream and a new razor to _really_ make him bald. _That_ part I knew how to do well. My father had very long hair, but when his hair started falling out about a week after his first treatment, he went to the barber and had all of it clipped off as much as it could be. "I refuse to be like those folks I saw in chemo," he said. "The ones that their hair is falling out, but they keep clinging to every hair as if their life depends on it. If that makes _them_ happy, more power to them, but not me. If chemo is going to make me bald, then I'm going to embrace it. I want my head to be so shiny that light bouncing off of it will _blind_ people."

He died with a very short amount of hair that was so soft it reminded me of the fur on the belly of a kitten, because he'd decided not to have anymore chemo and it had grown back that little bit. But, while he was on chemo I was the one who shaved his head smooth every week or so, because he never went completely bald. But it felt a little weird doing it on someone who was healthy. I know lots of guys shave their heads for all sorts of reasons, but to me, I will always see shaving your head as something you do when you're sick.

When I was done, he was as bald as a billiard ball, and the newly exposed skin looked lighter than the rest of him. "You've got to be careful," I advised him, studying him carefully as a black swallowtail butterfly hovered around us. "You need to wear a headscarf or a hat when you're outside during the day. You don't want to get a sunburn." I followed up the shaving with some lotion I still had from my father. It was spf30, and it put a little moisture into the skin, too. It wasn't just "head" lotion, it was an after shaving type stuff you could use anywhere you shaved. Dad always said it was soothing.

"For someone who was horrified about me shaving my head, you know a lot about how to be bald," he said, shooing away the butterfly, who flew off and instead landed on my shoulder.

I was rubbing the lotion into his skin and I froze. I felt stupid for freezing, I was sure he'd just forgotten. "Father with cancer, remember?" I said, trying to make my voice sound light.

"Oh shit!" He almost leaped from the chair, causing the butterfly to fly off and flutter about my head instead. Heturned to look at me. "I'm sorry, I'm _such_ an asshole."

"No, you just forgot," I said, trying to be cool. "It's okay."

"No, it's not, I should have remembered." He sighed, then said, almost timidly, "Since the subject is out here… can I ask what type of cancer?"

I knew he was feeling embarrassed, maybe even mortified, but I couldn't help but tell him the same thing my dad used to tell people who asked him the same question. "Ovarian cancer."

I saw a million emotions flash in his eyes ranging from sympathy to plain old, 'what the fuck?' and then he laughed. "Bro, that was cold!"

I grinned and laughed, "That's what my father would tell people who asked. He enjoyed watching them want to get pissed, and having that mental debate if they could get pissed at the guy with cancer. Seriously though, it was pancreatic cancer."

"That's rough," He shook his head. "Roman's little brother had leukemia really bad as a kid, they almost lost him."

"Lance?" I asked, even though I knew Roman only had one younger brother. "The one in NXT?"

"Yep," He said, nodding as well. "The kid is brilliant. But yeah, he had leukemia and you can tell it freaked out his whole family. They sorta treat him like he might self destruct any second. He says it was a lot worse when he was younger, but you can still tell they worry about him a lot. His mom really wishes he wouldn't wrestle. He's really smart, but wrestling is in his blood. He probably would have been in NXT a lot sooner, but he got his masters degree first. Yeah, that's how smart he is, he's not even thirty and he has his masters degree, probably his doctorate, I haven't talked to him in a bit. And he got it all while working the indies, too."

I smiled. "You talk about him like you're proud, like he's your little brother."

"He is. Maybe not by blood like you are, but Roman is my brother, his family has taken me in, so Lance became my brother by default. I don't mind, he's a great guy for a brainiac." He ran his fingers over the top of his head. "Smooth as a baby's butt," he declared, changing the subject. "Now, let me get dressed and we can go get those burgers."

I nodded, part of me feeling guilty because I was a little envious of Lance. Not the cancer part, cancer sucks, but that he'd known Dean longer and he had already proved himself worthy of being Dean's family. Dean _liked_ him, Dean hardly_ knew_ me.

_So? _part of my mind said, a part of my mind I've always had, but since he'd died, it now sounded an awful lot like my father's voice. _You've got a chance to know him now. No sense in getting upset for a past you can't change, focus on the future. He's here with you now. _

As we headed to the house, the butterfly tagged along with us, but stopped at the door and fluttered back over the dead ground we called a yard. Maybe I would buy some type of potted plant butterflies would enjoy and hopefully remember to take care of it.

.

When we'd changed out of gym clothes and into something a little more presentable, I surprised him by telling him we weren't taking his car. "No time like the present to learn," I said. "I'll ride my bike, you can be passenger."

"You're kidding," he shook his head. "I know the rental car sucks, but it at least has a roof. I want to learn to ride, not be a passenger."

"Learning to be a good passenger will help you be a good rider," I said, as I lead him to the bike shop.

"Do I have to hug you to ride?" he asked, still sounding reluctant, but going with me.

"You'll need to hold on to me, but you don't have to hug me," I said. "I mean, if you're really insecure about your masculinity, you can hold on to the edge of the seat, there are straps."

He gave me a squint eyed look. "Very funny," he said dryly, "I'm a wrestler, remember? I'm plenty sure of my masculinity. I'm more worried that I'll crush your ribs if I squeeze too tight."

"Sure," I said, completely not believing him.

Anticipating that I'd have to let Dean be a passenger on my bike, I'd switched my bicycle style seat for a longer one that would allow for a passenger. Dad had more than one of them in the shop, so it hadn't been a problem.

Dean stopped and looked at Dad's, well, now _his_ bike that was parked next to mine, all shined up and ready to go. "She is _so _beautiful," he said.

I grinned. "And she's comfortable too. She's got that soft suspension a good touring bike has." I walked over to my bike, "This bike, however, is a harder ride."

He looked at my bike and let out a whistle. "Nice!" he was looking at my gas tank, painted with that root beer flake I'd always loved. "I suppose you and our dad built this?"

I nodded, as I grabbed two helmets from a shelf with a lot of other helmets we'd collected over the years. A lot of the MCB's we bought, the owners threw in the helmets and my dad always took them. "Here," I said as I tossed one to him. "See how this fits."

He put it on and tightened the chin strap. It seemed to fit him well enough at least for tonight. Tomorrow I'd let him try some others on, and let him see which one he liked best.

"All you have to know to be a good passenger is don't fight it," I said, as I got on my bike. "Just do what my body does. Don't lean into the turns, don't try to sit up straight when we're in turns. Let your body move as the bike does. No, you don't have to hug me, but just put your hands on either side of my waist."

"Okay," he said, sliding on behind me. "Here goes nothing."

.

He turned out to be a good passenger, as I suspected he would be, and I was able to get to the Horse's Bass fast enough considering it was all the way over on the other side of town and down the old highway about five miles.

When we got there, as I parked the bike he sniffed the air. "I can smell grease," he said. "This is going to be awesome."

When we walked in, Slim, the bartender on duty looked at me. "Yo, Creed!"

"Yo, Slim," I called out. He looked up, grinned and motioned to a couple empty seats at the bar and I shook my head. "We'll take a table."

Dean followed my lead, saying nothing until we were seated at one of the tables tucked in a dark corner of the bar. "I can see why folks call him Slim," he said, nodding towards the bar. "I almost want to send a few burgers over to him, he's so thin." Which was certainly the truth. Slim ate just fine though, he just ran on the thin side. Dean looked around. "Nice atmosphere."

"Sorry," I explained, thinking that maybe he'd have preferred to sit at the bar. "A lot of my dad's friends come here, and I wasn't sure if you felt secure enough in your disguise to deal with a lot of people examining you up close. If we sit in the bar, we'll see lots of them. Here the light is dimmer, too. Besides, I want to hear this story about how the WWE _thinks_ you did drugs, without being interrupted every five seconds."

He shrugged, "We can sit wherever you feel most comfortable."

I got the attention of Nichole, Dale's daughter who worked as a waitress. She nodded when I ordered two cheese burgers with onions and fries. "You want cheese and bacon on those fries?" she asked.

Dean's eyes lit up. "Yes!" he said. "Cheese _and_ bacon, that'll be _perfect."_

So, we ended up with two messy cheeseburgers with lots of onions, cheese and bacon fries, and a pitcher of the "House beer" which is whatever beer they can get on the cheap, usually some beer that isn't super popular around here, and the distributor wants to unload it before it goes bad. It's usually a good beer for having with a meal and that's about it. I warned Dean that usually it was pretty weak too.

"That's okay," Dean said. "We're not here to get wasted, at least I hope not, since you're driving and I have to ride behind you."

He started telling me the story about how he bought pot in Colorado and then deliberately got himself busted to get a suspension. The burgers were delivered at the part where he was lying on the sofa, trying to vape in Vince's office, so he paused, which gave me a chance to catch my breath, because Dean was telling the story in a way that made it seem hysterically funny, right down to doing fantastic imitations of everyone who had been in the room, not just the voices, but the expressions they had been wearing.

The burgers were delivered with a ton of napkins, which he eyed. "When they give you a stack of napkins, you _know_ it's gonna be greasy." And with that, he lifted the burger to his mouth and took a bite. "Oh my god," his eyes were half closed as he chewed. "This is heaven on earth."

I shrugged as I dug into mine. I love a good bar burger too, but I wasn't quite as orgasmic as Dean was. "I guess I'm used to these. I get one almost every time I work."

"You don't understand, I spend most of my time on the road eating in catering, which is often pretty shitty, or trying to find restaurants that have food that isn't horrible for me, to make up for the crap I eat in catering. This burger is anything but healthy, but it's _so_ much better than what I'd get in catering. And it's a hell of a lot tastier than a chicken breast sandwich on 21 grain bread with bean sprouts instead of lettuce and plain yogurt instead of mayo ."

"That sounds disgusting."

"Imagine how it _tastes,_" he said. He took a few of the fries and shoved them in his mouth, and nodded his approval at those. Then, having exclaimed enough about the food, he went back to his story, which he finished up while we ate.

By the time he finished, I was still laughing, although I wasn't sure I should be. He'd done something pretty serious to get some time off and I felt a little guilty. "I hope you don't get in too much trouble over this."

He shrugged as he put the last of his fries in his mouth and chewed them, looking just as happy over this last bite as he did over the first. When he'd finished chewing and swallowed he continued. "As I kept whining, pot _is_ legal in Colorado. It's against the rules of the WWE, legal or not, but I didn't break any laws."

"I thought the WWE was starting to allow time off," I said. "I read in an article that Vince said wrestlers could request time off and get it. It wasn't very long ago, so I'd think he'd have to give you time off if you'd asked for it?"

"Yes, he would," Dean said. "But, I took time off a few years ago to get to know my son and they didn't like that." He gave me a quick rundown on how he had dated Cinnamon, got her pregnant and didn't know it, they broke up and they re-met again when Neil was older. "I got buried when I came back, but Roman and Seth fought for me, and they made sure I wasn't buried for long. Both of them hold the clout to be able to get the Powers That Be to listen. I used to, but after that _vacation_, I lost a lot of that clout. I stayed on top though, thanks to them, and when Shield got back together, all three of us saw a popularity surge. But the heads of things don't listen to me as much as they listen to Roman and Seth. They listen to me a lot less than they did when Shield was first running around."

"Won't you take flack for having smoked pot?" I asked.

He shrugged. "I might. I'm willing to face that. But oddly, sometimes getting a drug suspension works better than asking for time off. Sure, when I come back, I'll likely be donating my piss in a tiny cup with every new stadium we go to for awhile, but before you leave on a drug suspension, they make you go around and apologize to every single wrestler. It's a complete walk of shame, someone from security goes with you or sometimes one of the head honchos comes with you. In my case, my escort was _Hunter_, of all people. And you have to apologize to creative too, for ruining their plans for your character. It's really a pain in the ass. But, Vince, Hunter, and Stephanie seem to realize just how bad it is, and when you come back, there usually seems to be an attitude that you paid your price, did the time, did the walk of shame, it's okay now. They don't want to put too much pressure on you, for fear you'll blame them for your drug habit, that you couldn't take the pressure and you cracked. So, yeah, getting suspended looked like the better option. No, I don't get paid, and I had to actually pay a fine, but eh, that doesn't matter much. I don't get paid while I'm recovering from injury, either. And, they tack that time on the end of your contract, so it all works out anyway."

He spoke with a weary voice, as if he'd grown tired of the WWE. I didn't know if I should say anything or not, but it got quiet after that, both of us saying nothing, so I finally said, "Are you getting tired of wrestling?"

He looked shocked. "No, not wrestling," he said. "I'm getting tired of _WWE_ wrestling, and that's an entirely different thing." He sighed. "I'm not going to dump this on you, I didn't come out here to dump my woes on your shoulders, I came out here to get to know you and to learn to ride a bike. I'll worry about my shit later."

I could respect that and appreciate it. He didn't want to wallow while he was supposed to be enjoying himself. "You know," I said, "longer bike trips are a good way to clear your head and get a perspective on things."

"I've heard that," he said, grinning. "And, I hope it works."

.

On Wednesday night, the Horse's Bass had live entertainment in the form of a husband and wife team, known as Lacy and Casey. Yes, those are their real first names. I don't know if they were born with them, but that's what it says on their license, according to the local cops. They both play acoustic guitar and they mostly sing rock and blues style duets, or they take turns singing other stuff. She sings a lot of Stevie Nicks/Fleetwood Mac stuff. He sings a lot of Clapton/Seger type of stuff. Yeah, they're older people, more our Dad's generation than ours. They started setting up while we were still eating, and after I told Dean about them, he wanted to stay and watch them for a bit. I didn't mind, I'd heard them play more times than I could remember, and for a couple folks with nothing but guitars and their voices, they did pretty good.

Dean was getting the biggest kick out of them, watching and clapping enthusiastically after every song, which got the audience, most of whom had seen them so many times they'd learned to tune them out, to actually listen and clap too. Which, in turn, made Lacy and Casey step up their performance.

As we were watching, a couple of my Dad's friends came in, Glen and Mike. The bar was full, probably because people were staying longer, enjoying the show. They looked around and when they saw and recognized me, they came over and sat down in the two empty chairs. "Hey Creed, who's your friend?" Glen asked.

I felt instantly stupid. For all my worry about him being recognized, I never thought to ask him what we should say his name was. But, Dean seemed to have put some thought into it, because he grinned and held out his hand. "Jon," he began, and for a moment, I thought he was going to use "Jon Moxley," which would have clued them off, especially Mike, but instead he said, "Jonathan Brian Goode, but call me Jon."

"Hey Jon," Glen said, and the two of them did one of those quick, clasping handshakes with their forearms up. "I'm Glen, and this is my buddy Mike. Mind if we join you? I don't see any other seats open."

I wasn't sure I wanted them to join us or not, particularly because Mike is a huge wrestling fan. Glen is more of a casual watcher. He probably wouldn't know who was in a match, just that there were two people wrestling. Mike, on the other hand, would know who they were, how long they'd been wrestling, all the indie promotions they belonged to before, what position they held on the card, their real name, and every name they had ever wrestled under. Mike is what you'd call a Super-fan. If Dean could get away with Mike not recognizing him, then Dean should be able to go anywhere in town without being discovered and I wasn't sure he could do that. But Dean nodded and they sat down.

And at first it went fine. The four of us sat there, drinking our drinks and watching Lacy and Casey and yelling out, "_Cocaine!"_ after every song Casey did. It's a private joke that we clued Dean in on. Casey loved to perform any Eric Clapton song the man had ever done, except for Cocaine. He'd said it was the most requested song he ever got, and he was sick to death of it, and he'd like at least _one _time where he didn't have to sing it. So, of course, everyone made it a point to request it.

Dean laughed when I told him. "It's mean," he said, "funny, but mean."

"Eh, I don't think he hates it as much as he pretends," Mike said, shrugging.

The place was getting warm, and Dean removed the baseball cap he'd been wearing. And that's when Mike started really staring at him. "You remind me of someone."

"Maybe me," I said, trying to strike that balance between joking and serious, but mostly, casual. I had introduced him as a cousin, something Dean and I agreed on earlier. I wasn't sure who Dad had told about the Dean Ambrose Is My Kid thing, but we were going to assume nobody but me, until someone said otherwise. And besides, he wasn't supposed to be Dean, he was some Jon Goode dude. "Or my Dad."

"Yeah, maybe," Mike said, still staring at Dean, then he shook his head. "Nope, you look like Dean Ambrose."

Dean shrugged. "Yeah, I get that all the time."

"Are you sure you're not?" Mike asked, his gaze becoming more intense as he continued to stare at Dean, as if dissecting every feature he had and comparing it to every time he'd watched Dean Ambrose.

"Mike, do you really think that's something he'd forget?" I said, trying to sound like I was thinking this was getting ridiculous. "Oh, that's right, I'm Dean Ambrose, silly me!"

When I was younger, I called all my Dad's friend "Uncle" but when I got about sixteen, they started telling me I could cut out the "Uncle" part and just call them by their first names. It may seem weird, but once I was able to call them by their first names, it started to feel like we were closer in level.

"Yeah," Mike said, "But really, he's the spitin' image of the guy!"

Glen shrugged and God bless him, said, "I don't see it." Although, he probably barely knew who Dean Ambrose was.

"I won a contest once," Dean said, sounding sincere as hell. "The WWE was in town, and they held this Shield Look Alike contest at the bar and I went as Dean. I won _free_ buffalo wings for a _year."_

Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was just that I was so nervous about this, and my emotions were on edge, but the words he used and the way he used them, made me burst out laughing. "You never told me that story," I said.

"I was trying to save it for when we went on our bike trip," Dean said, his voice so sincere I almost found myself believing him. "I thought I'd take you to the bar and we could have free buffalo wings together." He made it sound like this would be a real monumental event, that we could go to a bar and get free wings. "And we can get them with bleu cheese or _ranch!"_

That remark sent me over the edge with a fit of laughter. When I tried to stop it by taking a gulp of my drink, it got stuck and I started coughing so badly that Dean finally slapped me on the back a couple times. "Cousin, we finished eating over and hour ago," he said, as he was slapping me. "Don't tell me I have to perform the Heimlich maneuver on you." This sent me into another fit of coughing and laughter. By the time I was able to settle down, Mike either forgot about accusing Dean of being Dean, or decided not to risk another laughing/coughing fit from me.

.

We left the bar about midnight, because neither of us wanted to sleep in too long the next day. We were both sober, having only had one pitcher of weak beer between the two of us, and drinking soda water with lime afterwards.

Glen and Mike stayed when we left, taking over the table, so as we headed to the bike, I asked Dean why he'd used Jonathan Goode as his "fake" name. "I mean, you were Jon Moxley for so long, I get why you might have thought of Jon, first. But where did you get the Goode part?"

He stared at me. "Jonathan Brian Goode," he said, slowly. "I was thinking it would help me fit into your family better."

"Huh?" That confused me.

"You're _Creedence_. That tells me your family likes to give out names that are music related," he explained, which still left me confused. "_Jonathan Brian Goode_," he repeated. When I continued to look baffled, he shook his head. "You're not _getting it_. Jonathan Brian Goode. Jon Brian Good. _Johnny B. Goode._"

_Finally_ I got it. "Oh god, I feel stupid now," I said, shaking my head.

"Yeah," Dean said, looking at me with this "Tisk-tisk" expression. "It's just one of the _greatest _rock and roll songs ever done, and it's been covered by almost _every_ decent band ever since."

"And, Michael J. Foxx in_ Back to the Future_," I reminded him. "That's one of my favorite movies, I feel so stupid now." It had been one of my Dad's favorite movies and that might be why I liked it so much, because one of my first memories is of being curled up on the couch with my Dad sitting between Janis and I, watching that movie. I don't know where my mother was, but she and my dad weren't fighting and the house had a peaceful air to it, it rarely had.

He nodded. "Yeah, so you do know the song. There's hope for you, yet."

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Yes, having him come up with Jon Goode was a tongue in cheek tribute to Dean's real name.


	7. Chapter 7

"I'd rather be riding my motorcycle thinking about God than sitting in church thinking about my motorcycle"  
\- Unknown

.

* * *

.

**Chapter Seven**

{o}-{o}-{o}

.

_**Creed**_

.

"Oh, _dude_," Dean said, shaking his head. "_Tell_ me you're kidding."

We were behind both outbuildings, where the land was so bad that the only things that seemed to thrive were ugly ones. Thorny bushes and strange, almost mutated looking grass that would grow so high and then burn out in the heat of summer. And where we were standing had nothing growing off of it, a patch of dirt beaten down so hard that it was pretty much nothing but a dirt parking lot.

It wasn't the dirt parking lot that Dean thought I was kidding about, it was the bike I had brought out from the bike shop outbuilding.

It was a Honda, CB200, built in 1974. If it had been restored, he might have had a different reaction, but it wasn't, it was beat to shit. Dad and I had rebuilt the engine so many times that there might not be an original part on it. The gas tank and frame was pitted and dented, and probably would have been rusted, if we hadn't done some repair jobs to make sure it wasn't. The seat leather was cracked and worn and if you sat on it, this funny smell came out, like it was giving back one of the millions of farts that had been bounced off of it.

The bike was a complete mess, unlike the bike Dean owned, unlike my bike. I rolled it in front of him and grinned. "Nope, I am not kidding," I said. "This is the bike I learned to ride on, the bike our _father_ learned to ride on. She's got low power, and nobody is going to give a shit if you dump her or not. She's an old workhorse, but she _does_ work." I waved my hand because there was a black swallowtail butterfly hovering around Dean and I.

I had expected this reaction from Dean, because it was the same reaction I'd had when Dad told me that was the bike I'd be learning on. It was my 14th birthday, and even though I couldn't get my bike learner's permit until I was sixteen, Dad told me he'd start teaching me in the yard and on the road in front of the house, which was usually dead and the only time I ever saw a police car was when my mother called the cops on my Dad. So, it was pretty safe to let me ride on, even without a permit.

By the time I was sixteen, and could take the motorcycle driving and safety classes required by law, I was a good enough and safe enough driver that they bored me. Because, yes, I was only supposed to ride my bike on the road outside the house, but it was a long road, and Dad didn't stand out there and watch me. More than a few times, I'd turned right instead of turning around, and drove all around the back roads. And, Dad had taught me motorcycle safety before I ever put a mile on the old Honda.

I thought that he was going to make me a bike for my 14th birthday when he told me he'd teach me to ride, so I wasn't happy at all when I saw the old Honda. So, I understood Dean's reaction, but just like my dad, I wasn't going to give in. "Do you really want to dump your bike?" I asked him. "That beautiful bike my dad and I built, that bike that has been kept in perfect condition. Do you want to dump _that_ bike? Bend the fork? Dent the gas tank?"

He looked at me, eyes narrowed and sighed. "All right, you have a point." He looked over the CB200 again. "I sure can't make this bike look any more beat up." His attention was so focused on the bike that he didn't seem to notice the butterfly had landed on his shoulder.

"She's old, but she's good," I said, "I put a lot of miles on this bike before I moved into something bigger. And my first mine-all-mine bike wasn't one of my Dad's customs either. Dad didn't feel I was ready for that, he wanted us to build one together when he felt I was ready. So, my first bike was an FXSTS."

"Which means?" Dean asked.

"Harley Davidson, FXSTS Softail Springer. Dad got her used, but in good shape, and that was the first bike I owned." I grinned, remembering the good times I'd had on that bike until Dad and I built my current bike. Then I shook my head. "Enough with the walk down memory lane, let's start teaching you how to ride."

He took the handlebars from me and swung himself over the seat. "I'm ready when you are, teacher."

I gave him a look. "What do we do first?" I asked, holding something out to him.

"We put our helmet on," he said, sounding like a properly scolded schoolboy, as he took the helmet from me, which caused the butterfly to flutter off and come over to me instead.

He had told me this morning, while we were having a nutritionally sound breakfast of coffee and blueberry pop-tarts, that he liked riding a mountain bicycle, so I knew he had the balance thing down. So, mostly it was teaching him controls and letting him get in the practice. I had told him about the controls while we enjoyed our "complete breakfast" but now I showed them to him.

I knew riding was in our blood, because within an hour, he was riding that bike around the backyard, and he'd only dropped it once. He wasn't riding in that jerky "Oh-my-god-I'm-gonna-fall" way, the hallmark of the new rider, instead he was acting more like someone who was getting used to a new bike, adjusting to it being different than what he was used to. I stood in the shade of the gym and watched him, probably smiling like a fool.

When he finally rolled over to me and shut off the engine, he flipped up the face shield and he was grinning. But he didn't remove the helmet, or get off the bike. "Okay, what's next?" he asked. The butterfly, which had been hanging out with me, fluttered over to him and he waved his hand absentmindedly to get it to flutter off.

"Gotta keep riding," I said. "You've got the basics down, but a long distance ride like we're planning is something you work up to. So, we're going to ride a lot before we leave. I want to try to expose you to everything I can, road condition wise, before we leave."

"When can I ride our Dad's bike?" he asked.

"Don't be so impatient," I said, realizing I sounded exactly like my Dad had when he taught me how to ride. "I want to see you able to spend a lot of time on this bike before I give you the big boy to ride." Then, something occurred to me and I frowned, realizing I should have thought of this earlier. "I'll bet you don't have a motorcycle learner's permit do you?" Shit, that was going to make things rough.

He grinned. "You'd lose that bet. I did a house show close enough to the border of West Virginia that I was able to get to a DMV and take the test."

I was impressed, considering the brutal schedule WWE wrestlers had, that must have taken some real dedication. "When did you get it?"

"Right after you agreed to train me and ride with me." He was still grinning. "That's why I asked about it. Otherwise, I would have waited until I was able to take some real time off so I could take the safety classes. I still have to take that to get my license."

"Is it a requirement?"

He shrugged. "it seems to be the expected thing to do. They have Experienced Rider classes too, that are only five hours."

I nodded. "By the time I get you there, you can take the experienced test. I'm going to have one of Dad's friends come over while you're here, Glen, who you met last night. He's a safety course teacher for the state. I'll have him check you out to make sure you've got it all down." I frowned remembering the permit again. "It's great you have your permit, but I'm not sure if it's legal across state lines like we're planning."

"Oh," he said and looked crestfallen. "I didn't think of that."

"It's okay," I said. "We'll still do this, we'll just be careful when we ride so we don't get pulled over. And if we do, we'll plead ignorance and throw ourselves on their mercy. Most states have similar rules on permits and we'll follow _all_ of them. I'll be with you, so you've got the experienced rider some states demand. I'm twenty one, too. We'll only ride in the daytime, and you won't take a passenger."

He brightened up a bit. "Do you think we'll be okay, then?"

I nodded. "It's not like it was in my dad's time," I said. "Cops aren't lurking around corners trying to bust those evil bikers. A lot of them are bikers themselves, not just on the job. I mean, if we were wearing colors they might, but we won't."

"Colors?"

"Haven't you watched Sons of Anarchy?" I mocked, grinning. "Colors are what guys call their jackets with the emblem of their bike gang."

"Was our Dad in a bike gang?" He looked cautious as if he really didn't approve of that, but was afraid I might freak out if he expressed his disapproval.

"When he was younger, he rode with a gang for awhile," I said. "Then, he quit that. Yes, he and his buddies now have a club, but that's what it is, a club. Old dudes who just want to ride bikes and enjoy the experience." I remembered how they helped me get heroin and morphine for dad and added, "They aren't pure and innocent by any means, most of them have done a little time in jail, most are chip holders with AA or NA, but they're just old guys now, who keep out of trouble and ride together. I'm sort-of an honorary member, I guess."

"Do they have colors?"

I grinned. "They have denim jackets with the sleeves cut off that they wear like vests over their leather. One of the guys, Dave, his wife works at one of those places that does embroidery and she had patches made that they put on the backs. Michigan Wheelers," I added, anticipating he'd want to know the name. "The logo is an old style chopper with those curly flames that were so popular in the '70s painted on the tank. And, more realistic looking flames shooting out of the tailpipe." I smiled. "I'll show you dad's jacket when we get in, but they have no affiliations with any real gangs, they're just an old boy's club."

He nodded. "Our dad sounds like he was colorful."

I laughed. "Yeah, that's one way to put it."

.

.

For lunch, I heated up soup and made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I had some other luncheon meat I had bought, but Dean said he felt like PB&J, and once he did, I started to crave it too. So, we had a lunch that would delight the average six year old, PB&J on Wonder Bread, and Campbell's chicken noodle soup with extra noodles.

"Cinnamon makes her own soups," he commented when we were cleaning up the kitchen. "She says canned soup has too much salt and other things that aren't healthy. She can even make stock. If she doesn't plan on making stock or soup for awhile, she freezes the bones from any meat we have. Also, the local butcher sells her some huge leg bones from cows, and she'll make up a whole bunch of beef stock." He got a far away look in his eyes as if thinking of his wife gave him a bittersweet feeling.

"You miss her," I said.

He nodded and looked at me. "Of course I do. She's my wife, I love her, and we don't get to spend nearly enough time together. We make it work, and it's really nice to have all this stay in touch technology at our fingers, but it's not the same as being with her, being in her presence."

I drew in a breath, "Would you rather go home now?" I asked, inwardly praying that wasn't the case. "We could get your bike shipped out there, and maybe even the Honda and that way, you can be with your family."

He shook his head. "You're family too, you know," he reminded me. "And we're taking that trip together, then I'll have thirty days with all of you, my blood family all together."

"What about your mother?" I asked, noting she wasn't included in the blood family line up.

He frowned. "Yeah, okay, she's blood, and she and Cin have formed some bond. Good for them. Maybe the day will come where I can forgive her and be around her without wanting to start screaming at her."

"Just screaming? Just one, long, low, primal scream? Or, screaming words at her?" For some reason, I got a vision of Dean just staring into some woman's eyes and shrieking as if to wake the dead, no words, just angry screams.

"Words," Dean said. "I want to tell her she was a shitty mother. I want to tell her I still have a scar on my ass from when she and her junkie friend Kelly decided to cut me with a tin can, so the hospital would give me pain killers that _they _took instead. I want to recall every single mistake, every shit moment she ever gave me, and scream it at her. Scream it until her ears bleed."

I almost stepped back from him, the anger in his voice startling me with its intensity. I'd grown up with a junkie dad. Sure, he'd stopped by the time I went to live with him full time, but I had a lot of memories of times he'd nodded off and times when he just didn't communicate with me or my sister. Of a few little league games he'd missed and other things. I liked to think of my dad as perfect, but he wasn't. But if there was one thing about my Dad, even with the drugs it was that I always felt like he loved me and my sister, even if Janis never realized it. But loved us with a ferocity that couldn't be denied, no matter how wasted he was. He would never dreamed of hurting either of us for drugs. "She sounds… bad," I said.

"She was," Dean said and he shrugged.

"Maybe you should let her know how you feel?" I suggested. "I mean, you don't have to scream in her face, but maybe talk to her?"

He shook his head. "I don't think I can talk to her rationally. And, as odd as it sounds, I don't want to hurt her. She's made something of herself now, and she's got a daughter in law and grand kids. And, someday I hope she and I can get along. My screaming about her past sins will make that time take longer. So, I'm working it out. I'm trying to get to the point where I can forgive her enough to move on. If I dwell on getting my revenge, on screaming in her face, she'll probably be dead by the time I'm over it. And, I_ would_ like to have some type of relationship with her before she dies. She is my blood, and I know if she dies before we have some type of relationship, I'll spend the rest of my life regretting it."

I wasn't quite sure what to say, my mind was thinking about Janis and Mom. At least I was in contact with Janis, but I did avoid Mom, like she avoided me. Not that we fought when we did come in contact, it was more that she picked at me and picked at me, and after a while, I started to feel like I was getting smaller and smaller, like she was literally pulling bits of me off my own body and throwing them away. Like she was trying to dig down until she found the me she liked, but it wouldn't happen, and in that case, she'd just pick me apart, because better nothing than someone she didn't like.

Dean smiled, all good humor restored. "Okay, go get some shorts on," he said, "then let's get to the gym. Now it's _my_ turn to be the boss."

.

.

It took me less than an hour to realize that it was a good idea to do biking lessons in the morning, and wrestling in the afternoon. The wrestling was brutal, and had we done it first thing in the morning, I'd likely be too sore to be a decent motorcycle instructor.

Dean's first instruction was for me to run the ropes. I thought this would be cake, my dad had taught me, but as it turned out that I wasn't doing it "quite right." Maybe Dad had gotten lazy, or maybe because I'd been practicing for so long _without_ my dad that I had forgotten things, But Dean showed me the right way, and then made me do it and corrected me, until I got it just right.

Then he made me run ropes for _three hours_. North- South, then East-west. My dad and I used to run ropes, but never for more than an hour or so, which I thought was a lot, but _three hours?_ I was in good shape, but by the end of the first hour, having that middle rope smacking into my guts was starting to make me feel a little nauseous. And, just as it started to dissipate, I'd crash into the other one and it would start again. Part of me wanted to stop, just to let my stomach settle down, but I had a strange feeling that's what Dean was waiting for, that this was a test to see if I could endure something that was becoming more uncomfortable and monotonous for a long time. So, I ran those ropes. At the end of the first hour, when the sweat was plastered to my forehead, and making my shorts cling to me like they were another set of underwear, he climbed in and started doing North and South, while I did East and West. He didn't stop either.

I didn't know if Dean thought this was something we'd do all night if I didn't call it, but just as the third hour was beginning, I smacked into the rope, turned, and my stomach said enough was enough. I felt it coming and managed to make it to the west rope before leaning over the ring and puking.

In case you're ever asked about this? Yes, puking up a PB&J sandwich and Chicken Noodle soup is disgusting. Add three hours to let it stew in stomach acid and it looks and smells like a garbage can in the dish washing area of a restaurant that hasn't been scrubbed in ages. And it just didn't urp from my mouth, it spewed forward, a geyser of That Most Foul, complete with that bitter, awful odor of vomit. I was mortified. "Oh fuck!"

I expected Dean to look grossed out, maybe even make a few disparaging remarks about how much I sucked at this, but he smiled. "Have you ever done that before?" he jerked his thumb in the direction of the contents on my stomach, that was probably eating its way through the floor mats as we were speaking.

I shook my head.

"Congratulations." Dean clapped me on the shoulder. "Today You Are A Wrestler."

I raise a brow and he laughed and said, "My first instructor used to say that running ropes until you puke is like a wrestlers Bar Mitzvah You've gone from a kid who is _thinking_ about being a wrestler, into_ being_ a wrestler. Beyond that, it's just hard work and the breaks you get to try to make it to the top."

"Yeah?" I'd never seen any of my dad's friends from the old promotion puking from running ropes. From being too drunk? Yes, but not running ropes. Then again, most of them had been doing this for years and probably had gone way beyond that stage. "And let me guess, another part of the whole ritual is that I have to clean it up."

"Yep, unless there is a grunt around who can do it," Dean said. "When I worked at Heartland, that was my job for a while. Along with a lot of other things, some even grosser. But, I don't see a grunt around here, do you?"

"Me," I said. "I'm the grunt. My father and I used to clean this place most of the time. "And don't worry, boss, I'll get right on it." I slid out of the ring and went off to the little closet where we kept the cleaning supplies.

.

I had everything cleaned up pretty fast, and then sprayed the air with this air freshener we had. It worked just as I thought it would, and for a few moments we had the lovely smell of puke and "meadow breezes," before it dissipated into nothing.

"Do you want to work some more?" Dean asked me, "Or, did I tire you out?"

There was a vague feeling of mocking in his tone, as if he would lose some respect for me if I said I was too tired. And honestly, having had a few minutes to catch my breath and let that feeling of nausea roll off me, I felt better, so I got into the ring. "I'm not tired," I said. "Unless you are? I mean, you're a lot older than me, maybe you're getting soft."

"Soft?" He snorted in mock disgust, "I can do this for days, I'm a professional, remember?"

We spent the rest of that afternoon, into the evening, him teaching me moves and then the two of us wrestling so I could use them and by the time we were done, both of us were soaking wet and probably smelled like the inside of a gym bag. "We need a shower," I remarked.

He agreed and we headed back to the house.

.

.

Even after showering, both of us were tired. I had pulled out a couple steaks to thaw and I could have thrown them on the grill, but I figured they'd last, and asked if he minded bad pizza.

"Why would _I_ want bad pizza?" he asked, brow furrowed. "For that matter, why would _you_ want bad pizza?"

"Because they deliver here," I said. "This town only has two pizza places. One place has great pizza, but won't come out this far. The other has bad pizza, but they will bring it here."

He nodded. "Okay, let's try this bad pizza."

We got one extra large, supreme pizza, without olives. I was thrilled to discover he hated olives on a pizza as much as I did. Not just because it gave us something else we had in common, but because olives just _suck_. "My dad didn't mind them," I confessed. "I mean, he didn't love them, but if someone offered him pizza with olives on it, he'd eat it. He wouldn't pick them off like I do. And I will only pick them off if I have no other choice of food. Olives ruin the entire pizza."

"Wow, and here I thought our Dad was cool," he said, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

"I know," I said, in the same mocking tone. "But, everyone has their faults."

.

.

As we ate our pizza, he texted on and off with his family, which I understood, but then he asked me if I'd like to join in a family video chat. "This will give you a chance to meet my family, you know, before you meet my family," he said.

"I don't want to interrupt your family time," I protested. "I've hogged you all day."

He shrugged. "They'd like to meet you, too," he said. "And Neil is going to be there, so it's not like you're going to interrupt any 'what are you wearing?' time between Cinnamon and I."

I laughed, although I had a feeling Dean wasn't joking about the "what are you wearing" thing. But, I got my laptop from my room and Dean got his tablet out. I was really glad that even though we lived in north of Nowhere, we still had high speed internet. It was time to meet my sister in law and my nephew.

* * *

**Author's Notes**: Well, I'm kinda caught up with what I have written. I thought I'd have a few more chapters by now, but I have been busy as heck and I'm only going to get busier. But I will do my best to work on this story.


	8. Chapter 8

_If Shakespeare was alive today, he'd be writing wrestling shows._

\- Chris Jericho.

* * *

.

**Chapter Eight**

{o}-{o}-{o}

_**Dean**_

.

I had to help Creed get the correct software for the video chat program we used, and get him a proper account. The program is actually something owned and operated by the WWE (Or, maybe it's subcontracted out?) and it's only for WWE members and their families, so they can keep in touch. It's a little outdated and a lot of wrestlers have moved on, but I learned to use it, I'm comfortable with it, so I'll stick with it, at least for family chats. I had to send him an invitation so he could open an account. "Most of us use our regular names as our usernames," I explained. "You don't have to, but it's safe to do so."

He shrugged. "As long as I don't have to give out my full, legal name, because _that's_ a little embarrassing."

"What is it?" I was curious now, he seemed pretty laid back about being named Creedence, what could be worse?

"Creedence Clearwater Ryvers." His face flushed red.

I tried not to laugh, because I did have sympathy for the guy. "Our dad took _that_ a little too far."

"At least he didn't change our last name to Revival." Cheeks still a faintly pink color, he shrugged.

I was still trying not to burst out laughing. "Okay, no, you do not have to list your full name. Not even your full first name. Creed Ryvers will do. I had to tell the admin that you're my brother before the invite code was sent, so it should be fine."

He nodded and checked his email. The code had arrived, so he put it in the proper box, and got the sign up sheet. He filled out the information, which isn't too personal to be honest. Mostly your name, what email address you want to use in case someone tries to hack your account or a cell phone so they can text you if there is a problem, and pick a password. He filled the information out carefully.

He went with both email and phone options, which meant they had to text him _another_ code to put in _another_ stupid box to confirm he was texted the correct number. I get the security stuff, I really do, you wouldn't want it to "leak" that us WWE Superstars had a private video chat server, but when you're setting it all up, it can seem awfully redundant.

But then he was in. Neil had already made a private room, and he sent me the invite, I sent one to Creed and soon enough we were all looking at each other on a screen. The screen was cut into four parts and I could tell Neil was in his bedroom, and Cinnamon was sitting on the front porch. Creed was sitting near enough to me, that I was able to move my hand so it appeared on his camera and pointed to him. "Cinnamon, Neil, this is Creed. Creed, this is Neil and Cinnamon."

Creed looked at my finger for a moment, as if he just might be thinking of biting it, so I moved it away. "Hi," he said, "Nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about both of you."

"We've heard about you, too," Neil said, sounding excited. "Do you really build _motorcycles?"_

In my head, I was going, _ uh-oh, this could be bad._ Cinnamon hadn't been overly thrilled about my learning to ride, and her biggest concern had been that Neil would get it in his head that he should get a motorcycle. My wife is a paramedic and she's seen way too many motorcycle accidents to feel comfortable with that particular form of transportation.

"Yes, I do," Creed said. "Well, my father was more of a bike builder than I am, but I helped him enough that I could build a bike if I wanted to."

"Do you think you could build_ me_ a bike someday?" Neil asked.

I looked over at Cinnamon, who was squinting in that, "I'm not sure if I should let this go for now, or make a stand," expression she gets. _Yeah, _I thought, _This might go south very quickly._ I should have warned Creed. Cinnamon wasn't forbidding me to ride, she understood the bike and my connections with it and to Creed, but to a fourteen year old kid, what could be cooler than a custom motorcycle? What fourteen year old kid wouldn't want their uncle, who was a motorcycle builder to make them one?

Creed hesitated and I wondered if he had stolen a few looks at Cinnamon and figured it out. "Someday," he said, then added, "_Maybe_. That's going to depend on a few things."

"Like what?" Neil asked, sounding slightly defensive.

"Like, first you better have had your license for a couple years. I'm not going to build you a custom chopper, just to have you dump and wreck it the first week. Also, you better have taken all the safety classes your state offers. Then, we'll _discuss_ it."

Neil gave that sour look he does when he feels someone is wrecking his fun. Cinnamon, however, got some of the glare out of her eyes. I'm sure she was doing the math in her head and realizing that the youngest Neil would be before he'd be able to get Creed to build him a motorcycle was eighteen, more likely nineteen or twenty, so she still had a few years to try to discourage him. And, at least if Neil _still_ wanted to ride, he'd have to do a lot of preparations first.

"Dad doesn't even have his license," Neil countered. "He's only got his permit and you're letting him ride. You gave him an awesome bike, I've seen pictures of it."

"Your dad is also older," Creed said and even though I knew he was nervous, there was a tone of confidence in his voice as he spoke. "And, he's not learning to ride on the bike my- _our-_ father left him, he's learning to ride on an older bike I have, with a lot less power. I'm training him in a place where if he doesn't go too fast, he can dump it without much risk of injury. And, before we head on this trip to your place, he's going to take safety classes with a licensed safety instructor for the state."

With each word he spoke, I saw Cinnamon looking more on the side of, "Let's just let this one go" and less on the side of, "Let's not insist that Neil isn't even going to _think_ about riding a motorcycle while he's still living under my roof."

"Yeah," I agreed, trying to diffuse the situation. "Maybe someday, when you're eighteen or so, you can come out here to visit with Uncle Creed and he can start teaching you like he's teaching me."

"I guess," Neil said sighing, as he realized that we weren't going to just run out tomorrow, and build him a motorcycle. Then his expression brightened slightly. "Is there something I can do in the meantime to help? Like, get one of those low powered scooters or something?"

Cinnamon's expression went back to red alert status.

Creed shrugged. "Maybe, but it's not essential. You can ride a bicycle, right?" When Neil nodded, he continued. "So, you understand balance, a scooter won't help that much. Instead, I'm going to suggest you study hard and stay physically fit."

"_Study_ hard?" Neil frowned, sensing a trick and I admit, even I was looking at Creed, not on the screen, but actually over at him, wondering what fresh cow dung he was giving my son. "At what?"

"School," Creed said, shrugging again. I had mentioned to him that Neil was an honor student and how important Cinnamon and I felt it was for him to stay on high honors. "A _good_ rider is a _smart_ rider. A good rider can use his brain logically and quickly. School keeps your brain sharp. And being physically fit helps keep your reflexes sharp."

I stared at him. Was this the same guy who had told me the night before, when we were at that bar, that he'd only barely managed to graduate from High School and hated studying? He sounded like a guidance counselor now and I half expected him to add, "And, don't take drugs, mmkay?"

"I'm already a good student," Neil said. And while that may sound like he's bragging, he doesn't say it in a boastful tone. He's always been a good student, so he says it like it's just a known fact, the same as he might mention that his hair is red. "And I stay very fit, because someday, I'm going to be the _best_ wrestler in the world."

Okay, that last remark _was_ bragging. Even as his father I can't pretend it wasn't. But, that's okay, he _is_ a good wrestler. He's good in the ring and he's getting better at the talk part too. I know this, because he'll use his smart phone and film himself doing promos and send them to me.

"Well then, keep it up," Creed said. "And when you've graduated from college, we can talk."

I half expected Neil to start squawking about having to graduate from college before he can learn to ride, even though Cinnamon beamed at that remark. But, Neil's probably used to being told "When you graduate from college" as in, "You can try out for NXT when you graduate from college." The kid does have a guaranteed try-out waiting for him, Vince McMahon himself promised it to him.

Neil sighed as he digested this, so I looked at Cinnamon and thought we should change the subject. "Creed made my bed," I said.

"Dean, don't be lazy," Cinnamon said, half laughing in her misunderstanding. "You can make your own bed, Creed isn't there to wait on you hand and foot."

"No!" I laughed too and shook my head. "I mean he _made_ the bed. He made it out of wood, it's awesome. I never would have known it wasn't store bought, if he hadn't told me."

Cinnamon stopped laughing and looked at Creed, a serious expression on her face. "You did?"

"Yes, Ma'm," Creed said, shrugging, and I saw his cheeks begin to glow that pink color, like he'd put on a light shade of blush.

"Cinnamon," my wife said gently. "Please call me Cinnamon. And you _really_ built a _bed?"_

"Well, the bed frame," he said, his cheeks still this pretty, shell pink color that I hoped my cheeks didn't turn when I blushed. On Creed, it was almost cute, on me, I think I'd look ridiculous. "And the headboard. Not the mattress, of course."

"Are you good with wood?" Cinnamon asked and as I expected, her eyes were lit up like a couple of green Christmas lights.

"I am," Creed said, "Sorry if that sounds like bragging, but my father taught me and he was good and folks tell me I'm as good as him so…" his voice trailed off and he shrugged.

"It isn't bragging if it's the truth," I said, then added, "You guys talk, I'll be back in a minute."

I'm sure everyone thought I had to use the bathroom, instead, I went into the room I was using and took pictures of the bed and the headboard on my phone and sent them to Cinnamon so she could see for herself. Then, I figured I might as well use the bathroom anyway.

I'd set Creed up and I knew it.

A few years ago, when my wife was pregnant with Alice, we decided that the tiny ranch house we owned was too small, so we started looking to move. Neil didn't want to change schools, in fact, he didn't want to leave the neighborhood. I wasn't surprised, it's a very friendly neighborhood and Neil and my wife knew everyone who lived there. I knew most of them too, through them. Nobody ever fussed when I was home, or when Roman and Seth, or any other wrestlers came to visit. Yeah, everyone knew who we were, but the word had gone around fast, "If wrestlers are here, leave them alone, They are obviously here to relax, not to be pestered."

We had looked into rebuilding our house on the same lot, but it would have looked ridiculous in the neighborhood of small houses, to have the biggest one. We would have had to build up too, not just out. So, we would have ended up with something that would look like a skyscraper compared to the other houses.

Neil was the one who came up with the solution, which was to buy the abandoned farmhouse,which was a couple miles down the road. I was shocked, because that was the same place where Neil had fallen down the well, which lead to him having a broken leg and several other injuries, and me taking a long time off while he recovered. We barely knew each other then, and the time off gave me time to get to know him.

I thought that Neil would never want to see that farmhouse again, but he said he didn't blame the house, and always thought it was cool looking. He was right about that, it's one of those huge Victorian style houses with a wrap around porch on the first floor. And it's got all those interesting things you think of Victorian homes having, like steep roofs, two octagon towers on each side. It's four stories high, if you count the attic, five if you count the basement, which is purely dirt for right now.

We got the place for a song, which was good, because it was so run down that I was sure we'd just bought a money pit. The first thing we did was have the well properly filled. Like most original Victorian homes, it had all these tiny, tiny, rooms and barely any bathrooms. Before we could even move in, we had to have the place pretty much gutted to the studs and all the asbestos and lead removed. We had it reconfigured it to have far fewer, but much bigger rooms and added bathrooms. I thought we'd have professionals do all of the work, but Cinnamon had different ideas. She wanted to do a lot of it herself, at least when it came to things like painting, installing floors, and putting up trim. So, our house was a huge, unfinished project. It was livable, but it was strange. Every wall in the house had been primed but only a few were actually painted. She used a matte primer on the walls and ceilings. Then, so she didn't have to worry about the new sub floors getting stained, while she figured out what types of flooring she wanted to use, she painted the sub floors with the same primer. She had bought what seemed like a truckload of the primer, so almost every room was the same color, walls, ceiling, floor, and if there wasn't any furniture, it gave you a strange feeling of vertigo. And she'd done it all shortly after Alice was born, so it was slow work. And if you don't believe me, you try raising a toddler and painting rooms. I was starting to feel like we'd forever live in the unfinished house. We didn't even have a full set of cabinets in the kitchen, so she had brought in some cabinets we planned to use in the barn/shed and used them to store food.

The place still needed a lot of work, and a _whole_ lot of wood work. Trim pieces, cabinets, so on and so forth. I had the feeling that when Cinnamon saw what Creed could do, she'd want to kidnap him and keep him forever. Barring that, she would at least want to pick his brain for advice, maybe even have him teach her a few things. Maybe, if he was willing to stick around, we could give him a job for awhile. He could work on our house and start wrestling for WVW.

When I got back to the living room, Creed and Neil were talking about wrestling, and Cinnamon had walked off. Neil said she'd gone to check on Alice, but I soon got a ping on my phone which turned out to be her. **He really made that? **

_**Yeah, he did, **_I texted back. _**And he's made a lot of other stuff. This whole house is like living in a cabin. The walls are wood planks and he and his father made them. He's a genius with the stuff, apparently, even though he undersells himself. **_

**Can we adopt him? **

I laughed at that. _**No, I don't think so. He's 21, too old for adoption. But…" **_

**But what?**

_**He's a good wrestler. At least the wrestling part, but I think he's got potential for the talk part, too. And he wants to be a wrestler. I'm wondering if I could convince him to move to West Virginia. We could put him up, and pay him to help you with the house. And he can join WVW and learn to wrestle.**_

**That would be wonderful, but Mox, he's got a life there, **texted my sensible wife, who called me Mox whenever it was just the two of us. **I know you're all into having a brother, but you'll be on the road soon enough again, and he probably has friends and family there. **

_**I know he's got a mother, and he doesn't like her at all, **_I texted back, wishing I could use the talk to text feature, because this finger typing didn't come easily to me. I'd already slid down the sofa, so I wouldn't be seen on my tablet, giving Neil and Creed a chance to keep talking. _**And I think most of his friends were his father's friends. I haven't seen folks his age hanging out.**_

**It's your second day, ** Cinnamon reminded me, **We'll see after you've been there a week or so. **

She's right, as usual. I sort of have this habit of putting the horse before the cart. I hadn't even been here a full 48 hours and I was trying to rearrange my brother's life. For all I knew, Creed had a gang of friends he'd grown up with and they were his surrogate family. Maybe he had aunts and cousins. But the fact that the only family member he mentioned was his mother, and in less than glowing terms, gave me the impression he didn't have a lot of family. The fact that it seemed like the only people he knew were his father's friend made me think he had a pretty stilted social life.

.

.

I've never been one of those people who believes in being subtle, so the next day at breakfast, I asked him if he had a lot of friends in the area. He stared at me and for a moment, something flickered behind his eyes, an emotion I couldn't identify, but knew it wasn't a positive one. I thought he wasn't going to respond, then he said, "I'm friends with a lot of my father's friends."

"Okay," I knew I was treading on some verbal equivalent of sacred burial grounds or something, so I was prepared to let the subject drop and go into observation mode instead to figure this out, but he continued.

"I know it's weird," he said, "and, I swear, I had friends when I was in school, just not a lot of them. When my dad got custody of me, my house was so far away that my friends really didn't have a way to get out here, it's not because I'm a sociopath or something, I mean, I don't mind my own company-"

"It's okay," I interrupted, because the kid was getting more and more miserable the more he talked as if not having a lot of friends his own age was going to make me think he was a freak and run out of the house. "I was just curious." I thought about telling him why, but he was wound up. I mean, he's _Creed_, so he was sitting there quietly, but I saw the side of his jaw pulse and knew that was a sign that all was not fine in Creedence Ryvers land. "Hey, friends are friends, right? Who cares about their age."

At that, the pulse on his jaw stopped rippling and he slouched a bit, looking down at his scrambled eggs as if they had suddenly become very important. "That's not what she thinks," he muttered.

"Who? Your mother?"

He looked up and sighed. "No. Well, yes, she would probably say the same thing, the two of them are almost identical."

"Who else are we talking about?" I was curious now.

That's when he drew in one of those breaths so sharp that sounds like it will change the airflow of the room. "My, I mean, _our_ sister. Well, in your case, your half sister. Yeah, I should have told you earlier, but you have a half sister."

That hit like a kick to the back of the knees. I have a half _sister?_ And I'm only finding out about her, _now?_ I was about to tell him that maybe he should have mentioned this earlier, but thankfully my brain reacted faster than my mouth and I remembered he'd just said half sis and Mom were similar. Since he had little love for his mother, he probably wasn't too eager to have me meet sis, either. "Uh, okay," I said instead, trying to sound as nonchalant as I could. "Do you get along with her? Because I know you and your mom aren't exactly best friends."

"Janis and I get along, sort of," he admitted. "At least on the surface."

I couldn't let the name pass. "_Janis?_ As in _Joplin?"_

He nodded. "One of the few things my parents could agree on, let's give the kids music related names."

"Shit," I said, to ease the tension that had been building up. "Are you sure you're related to me and not Cinnamon? I mean, these musical names, that's _her_ side, not mine." He shrugged, but looked a lot less upset, so I continued. "How old is she?"

"Twenty seven," he said.

I had a feeling I was entering a verbal taffy pulling contest now, and information wasn't just going to fall out of his mouth. "And you two don't get along because she's a lot like your mother?"

A nod. Yep, pulling taffy. Not that I've ever _pulled_ taffy, but I have eaten taffy and I can imagine pulling it to be sticky and difficult, which makes it the perfect metaphor.

"And I guess she's got some opinions about your friends your age, or lack thereof?"

Another nod. "She works at the bar my mom owns. _She's_ upset because I don't have friends my age."

It worries me that I sort-of see her point. Shouldn't Creed have at lease a couple of friends his age? "Is it true?"

He nodded again, showing this is a favored form of communication. I said nothing, and let the silence run itself out. I took a chance that he'd break it if I waited it out, and I was right. "Yeah, I hung out with Dad a lot. And when he got sick, I _really_ hung out with him, because nobody else was around. I mean, some of dad's friends came over and visited him, especially when he wasn't that sick. And a few even when he was really sick stopped by too. But _amazingly_, my mother and sister weren't in that number. I had to tell my sister dad was… dad was…" He stopped and drew in a deep breath, "I had to tell her that Dad wasn't likely to make a month just to get her to make one last visit. If it was so important that I stay in touch with the few friends I had in High School, and make friends my own age, then where the fuck were they when someone had to take care of Dad? It's easy to get on my case now, when I couldn't suggest that if they wanted me to have a social life, maybe they could have visited." He pushed his plate away, and quickly swiped the sleeve of his shirt over his eyes so I wouldn't see the tears. "It just seems like that's my life story with them. They do _nothing_ to help me when I need it, then when I managed to do it myself, I've somehow screwed up. Like that paper I had to do in High School."

"What paper?" The kid was going in all directions now, but I had the feeling this paper was important.

He ran his hands through his hair. "The English teacher was making us do papers about different careers, something, I guess, to prep us for what we might like to do for a living. We were supposed to talk to different folks, like doctors or someone on the police force. One paper we were assigned, we had to find a small business owner. Well, Mom owns a bar, so I tried to talk to her. She told me she was too busy and that was what the internet was for. So, I researched the internet and talked to my Dad and some of his friends, including Carl, who runs a handyman service. I did my paper and got a B on it, which for me was really good. My mom read the paper and then told me I'd gotten everything all wrong. When I told her I'd spoken to Carl and some of Dad's friends, she dismissed them as idiots who didn't know anything. Get it? She refused to help me with the paper, but she sure as fuck could bitch about it, when I didn't get what she considered to be a decent grade."

"Yeah," I said. I did get it, and I didn't like it. How could you refuse to help your kid and then get upset because they didn't do as well as you hoped they would? It made no sense, which made it come across as just mean. "Do you have any plans for lunch?" I asked Creed.

"No," Creed said. "Why?"

"Because," I said, "I'm thinking today I'd like to try a deep fried hot dog."


	9. Chapter 9

_You start the game with a pot full of luck and and an empty pot of experience. The object is to fill the pot of experience before you empty the pot of luck._

-Unknown

* * *

.

**Chapter Nine**

{o}-{o}-{o}

_**Creed**_

I was not surprised when Dean dropped the bike twice on the second day, because it's one of those things that happens. A lot of folks think riding is this amazing, nearly impossible thing to do. When they realize it's far from impossible, they are careful, but they build up this false sense of confidence. They think riding a motorcycle is a lot like riding a bicycle. They think they're doing pretty good. They get too confident, they drop the bike.

This was exactly why my Dad didn't just let me on the road, but made me ride around in the backyard, and why I was making Dean do the same on his second day. Both times he dumped it, he wasn't going fast enough to do much permanent damage to himself and on the second one, all he did was bend the front fender a little bit. I made sure he was all right, then ran into the shed and grabbed a small tool kit we kept right by the door for situations just like this.

"I'm so sorry," Dean said, as I removed the fender. "I feel stupid."

"I don't know why," I said, as took a small wrench out of the box and started removing the hex bolts. Most bikes have fenders that removing them is a complicated matter of removing brakes, tires, etc. Knowing that the old Honda was likely to have a lot of fender bends as it was Dad's "training" bike, he'd made a modified fender with two metal tabs on the side and holes bored through them and the forks, so removal was simple. "Everyone does it. I think my second day, I dropped this bike half a dozen times. Tore up a pair of good pants once too, as I was riding a little too fast for the terrain and did a good long skid. I was lucky I didn't get my first case of road rash, too."

He squatted down beside me as I worked the fender. "At least it looks like a simple job to remove it."

I tried not to laugh, because I knew he just didn't know any better. I explained to him the usual procedure to properly remove a fender. By that time, I had the nuts and washers removed, so I carefully twisted the fender and slid it out. "This modification just shows you how easy it is to drop a bike."

"Why even bother with the fender, then?" he asked.

"The fender makes it street legal," I said. I put the bolts, washers, and nuts into a little dish that had a magnet on the bottom, which meant it clung to the bottom of the tool box and onto any metal pieces in it. Standing up, holding the fender, I said. "We're not likely to be discovered today when you take it on the road, but seeing that you're not a permit driver in this state, I'm not going to give any cops who pass by a reason to stop us."

"Yeah, that makes-" he began, then stopped. "Wait, are you telling me I'll be riding on the _road_ today?"

I nodded. "If you have a real itch for a deep fried hot dog you will. The bar is straight down the road about five miles. It's perfect for your first street ride."

"You trust me to street ride when I dumped the bike _twice?"_

Another nod. "You got cocky and I'm betting you're going to be driving a lot more careful when we hit the road. And I'll be with you every step of the way. You can practice around the yard some more, while I go and fix this. Then, when it's back on the bike, we can go."

.

.

I might have taken a little longer to bend that fender into shape than I needed, but I knew it was the only thing that separated me from lunch at The Spirited Heron. I wasn't too sure I wanted Dean and my sister to meet, even though he had the right to meet his half sister. At least he wasn't trying to meet my mom, and I supposed I ought to be grateful for that.

When I wasted as much time as I could, I came back outside. Dean was still driving around the property, looking more and more like a proper motorcycle rider and less like someone learning. When he saw me, he headed over. He helped me and together, we got the fender back on in a few minutes. "Ready for your first time on actual pavement?" I asked.

"I hope so," Dean said, biting his lower lip.

"Don't worry," I told him, "You'll be fine. I'll be with you, and the sooner we get you on the pavement, the sooner we can build you up to the point where you can take longer day trips. Once you can ride a bike for a few hours without getting bike butt, it'll be time to head to West Virginia."

"Almost heaven," He joked. "Well, for me at least."

And on that note, we both went into the house to change.

.

.

When Dad first got me out on the road in front of our house, he had a friend come with us. The friend varied, but their job was to take the front. My dad rode with me. The idea being that if something bad was up ahead, an accident or bad road conditions, they could warn us by pulling over. My Dad road with me to make sure I stayed safe or if I dumped the bike, I had help.

Yes, that all might sound like overkill, and like most teenagers, I griped about it, but Dad's opinion was, "It's my job to make you a good ride and keep you safe while you're learning, so suck it up, my little buttercup." Dad was a master at making me feel like I was being a whiny brat when he didn't want any arguments from me. It usually worked, no teenage boy likes being called "My little buttercup."

In the case of Dean though, I didn't have anyone to ride with us, and he wasn't a teenager. So, I felt the best thing was to ride together, which I explained to him. "Don't try to go faster than me, and if you feel we're going too fast, slow down and I will, too. Keep an eye out for any changes in road conditions. One of the reasons why it's good to learn on the road in front of the house is that it's not in the best shape. You'll have to look for potholes and large cracks in the pavement. Parts are even down to bare dirt. And, you might have to deal with grease or other slippery fluids, the people that do travel this road often drive vehicles that are leaking something or the other. So, do not feel you have to do the speed limit, which is 50, in fact, _don't_ do the speed limit, drive below that. Don't worry about cars getting annoyed, if we come across any, they'll just pass us."

He nodded. "I've noticed a lack of traffic noise at the house, which tells me this is not a main drag."

"Not since they built a major highway back in the '70s," I said, "Now it's just used by the local traffic, of which there is very little. A trailer park about four miles from here uses it the most. And, a church." The same church I'd built the floor for, but I decided not to mention that.

.

We took the slowest ride to the Spirited Heron I'd been on since before I got _my_ license. It was boring, which was great because it meant Dean was a really good rider. Cautious enough and obviously alert about his surroundings. The speed would come soon enough. Slow and safe was much better in the beginning.

It was hot, so as we parked the bikes, I grabbed a couple of boards from where they were stacked by the building. I handed one to Dean. "Do this," I instructed, then slid the wood under my kickstand.

Dean did the same, and I had the feeling he had almost figured out why, but he still asked me, "What is this for?" I explained about heat and how motorcycle kickstands, with all that weight behind them had a tendency to make holes in asphalt. He nodded, as if I were merely confirming what he had suspected. That's one of the things I really liked about my half brother, he wasn't afraid to ask things. A part of me had been worried that he'd feel he couldn't ask me things, least he come across as mentally weak, because he was the older of us. Instead, he had the right attitude, he saw me as an experienced rider with wisdom to impart, while he was a learner who needed the wisdom. I looked at him the same way with wrestling. Dad might have taught me, but Dean was so far above me and Dad that I felt like I might have never learned anything. He was the wrestling guru, I was the bike guru and we both respected that.

"There are a lot of bikes here," Dean remarked, when we were done parking the bikes. "Do you know any of these guys?"

"I know most of them," I admitted. "This place and Horse's Bass are hang outs for The Michigan Wheeler's."

"Did your dad come here a lot? Like, after the divorce?"

I shook my head. "He avoided it like it was on fire. But, he never told his buddies not to go there. They wouldn't go if Dad was with them though. And Dad didn't mind that they went, because he knew Mom had to make a living."

When we walked inside, the shouts to me from the area with the pool tables confirmed that I was known to these folks. Mike and Glen were there, and they also called out greetings to "Jon," and invited us to play pool with the group.

I looked at Dean, half hoping he would think playing pool was a mighty fine idea, but I knew that wasn't going to happen. He wanted to meet our sister. I just wasn't sure if he wanted to get to know her, chew her out, or a little bit of both.

We headed over to the bar together, where Janis, as I expected, was polishing glasses. You know how in every movie or TV show, if the bar isn't busy, the bartender is always polishing glasses? Apparently Janis watched those movies and shows and thought they were training films. When I work bar, if it's quiet, I clean, I don't just polish glasses. Because let's be honest, it's a dive bar, who cares if the beer mugs have a few water stains? But nobody wants to put their arms down on a bar so dirty it's become sticky. No one wants to see dust collected onto bottles. Polishing glasses is something you do when you want to keep busy, but still chat with a customer who's decided you are their sounding board, and even in that case, I'm trying to find _real_ cleaning that can be done near the customer.

Janis was so engrossed in her glass polishing, that she didn't look up until Dean and I were sitting right across from her. When she did, she got that look like she wasn't sure if she should greet me warmly, or tell me to fuck off on out of there.

"Creed," she said, confirming that she at least knew my name. "What brings you here?" Yep, typical Janis greeting. With the addition of a sidelong glance at Dean, a slight frown then going, "Who's your friend?"

That got me wondering right out of the gate. When we were kids, before Mom and Dad got divorced, Janis might never have been a huge wrestling fan, but she wasn't anti-wrestling like my mother is. I knew she didn't dare watch wrestling in my mom's sacred house, even if Mom was at work when it was on, she was probably afraid Mom had some magical tracer that would show up on her cell phone, "Your daughter is watching wrestling. Commence death sequence? Y/N."

But, she had stayed at my place while I was delivering Dean's bike to him. Had she maybe, with the safety of being out of Mom's house, watched wrestling? Had she seen Dean Ambrose back when he had hair? I decided to test her. "Janis, this is Dean Ambrose."

Dean put his hand out and Janis stared at it for a moment, then put her glass polishing cloth down and shook it. Was there_ more_ recognition flickering behind her eyes? It was hard to tell, Janis can play it cool. "Nice to meet you, Dean," she said as she smiled, slipping into that, "I love everyone" shell she had, that allowed her to be popular all through her life.

Dean shook her hand. "Nice to meet you, too," he said.

It was obvious he was leaving it up to me on how to tell Janis who he was, besides Dean Ambrose, because he said nothing after that. I was about to say something, but Janis said, "So, what will you guys have?"

We both ordered sodas, because again, riding motorcycles and alcohol don't mix and neither of us were sure how long we'd be staying here. Dean asked about the deep fried hot dogs. When Janis, with a grin on her face, assured him they were horribly unhealthy, but delicious none-the less, he ordered two of them. I ordered the same, and asked her to add an order of nachos, extra cheese, made with five alarm chili instead of salsa, and extra jalapenos. In the old days, when I was a kid, she would have gone to the door that lead into the tiny "kitchen" and hollered the order to Alex, the daytime cook and dish/glass washer. But, even though Mom couldn't pay Janis an hourly wage, she could afford a computer system that meant Janis only had to put the order on a tablet type thing, and hit a button, which would show the order on another tablet in the back, so Alex could start cooking. Yeah, it's a dive bar and Mom doesn't pay the help, especially her own daughter, near what they're worth, but god forbid the place not have the latest tech. Because bikers, truck drivers, and construction workers were just _so_ impressed by that crap. "Wow, this place smells like dirty feet, stale beer and cigarette smoke, but hey, look at that fancy ordering system!"

As Janis got our sodas and typed the order into the tablet, Dean looked at me with this "Well, when are you going to tell her?" expression. So, when Janis turned back to us, I drew in a deep breath to steady myself. "Dean is the one I brought Dad's bike to." This seemed like a good lead in, although I hoped she wouldn't rip him a new one for not buying me a plane ticket home.

Nope, "Be nice to strangers" Janis took over and she smiled. "My dad must have been very fond of you to leave you his bike." She had picked up her polish cloth and was wiping spots off wine glasses again. "It's a very valuable, one-of-a-kind motorcycle."

Dean shrugged. "I never met him."

If that wasn't a nudge for me to explain things soon, then I didn't know what would be, so I decided to just lay it on the table. "Janis," I said, "Dean is Dad's son. He's our half brother."

In what might be a first for my sister, she dropped the glass on the ground, where, she obviously didn't have the slip mats set up, because it crashed and I heard it shattering into a million pieces.

"Are you okay?" Dean asked as our sister stared at him. "It didn't hit your foot or anything, did it?"

Janis just stared at him, cloth still in her hand. Maybe I should have been worried too, but I was trying not to laugh. Janis, girl wonder, the kid with all the poise and grace in the family, Janis was speechless. But, not for too long.

"No, I'm fine," she said, still looking ruffled. "It'll teach me to mess with the glasses when the mats aren't down." She leaned down to pick up the big pieces. I debated if I should jump behind and help her, what with her being my sister. I even started to rise from the bar stool, then I heard a voice and froze right in my seat.

"Janis, I heard a crash, are you all right? I've told you a million times, never mess with the glasses until the safety mats are on the floor," a woman's voice called out, and she came sailing out the back. When she saw me, she stopped and gave me a startled look before going, "Hello, Creed."

I tried to look casual. "Hello, Mother."

* * *

**Author's Notes: **So, Dean gets to meet sister and Mom. That should be fun, right?

Thanks to all the great folks who have been reviewing this story, it means a lot to me.


	10. Chapter 10

"Actually, I _am_ as good as everyone else pretends to be. It's scary"

-Dean Ambrose

.

**Chapter Ten**

{o}-{o}-{o}

_**Dean**_

.

My half sister looked nothing like me and there is only a minor trace of her when I look at Creed, or pictures of the father we shared. However, the woman who came out of the kitchen? Yeah, sis was a dead ringer for her. Not that it mattered, but now I knew exactly what Janis would look like in twenty years for the most part. I hoped Janis won't have that hard set look in her eyes that says, "I have no time for your shit," and you just know that by "shit" she means anything that isn't beneficial to her.

Okay, maybe I'm a little tainted in my opinion because I like Creed, and Creed doesn't like her, but that look in their mother's eyes was oddly familiar. It took me a moment before I pictured who it reminded me of, but then it hit me, "Aunt" Kelly. The woman who was often the instigator in the schemes she and my mother cooked up in order to injure me so I would be able to get pain medication that they would take. I took an instant disliking to her, which I forced into the back of my mind. I didn't want to do anything _too_ stupid.

"Sorry, Mom," Janis said and looked at the floor where pieces of the shattered glass still lay about, no doubt. I looked over at Creed, half expecting him to have a smirk on his face, as if he was saying 'Ha-ha, you got in trouble.' Instead, he had his head down as if _he'd_ been scolded too.

_Manipulator_, that voice in my head told me, the voice I've always had, the voice that taught me to read folks and know how far I could push them, or if I could push them at all. _Their mom is dominant, and she ruled what she sees as her kingdom with an iron fist. She doesn't even have time for her kids_.

"Well, Creed, what brings you here?" she asked and I wondered why she would greet her own son this way. No greeting, just right to the point "What brings you here?" Like she's implying in the sentence, "What do you want and it better be important." Considering how Janis greeted him, maybe this is the norm for this family.

That was the moment I decided it was time to intervene and save Creed the trouble of trying to explain, because I half expected he'd start to stutter. "I wanted to meet Janis," I said, "Seeing that she's my half sister."

Their Mom looked at me and I knew she had no clue who I am other than a guy who claimed to be related to her kids. She studied me as if I were an interesting exhibit in a museum, not one that she particularly liked, but interesting enough that she might want to take a second glance just to make sure it really wasn't worth her time. Silence rules the bar, except for where the bikers were playing pool. I fixed my gaze right onto hers and said nothing, waiting for her to make the next move.

"He mentioned he had a kid when we were first dating," she finally said. "He also said that his son's mother told him to stay away and have nothing to do with him. She sounds to me like a smart woman. So, how did you find out Kyle was your father?"

"Me," Creed said and I watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed at least twice. "Dad asked me to bring his motorcycle to Dean and some paperwork and I did."

"Yeah," I interjected. "And, since he's told you my name is Dean, what should I call you?"

"Mary," she said, and went right back to the subject at hand. "And you accepted the bike?"

"Yes," I said. "I figured that it was important to- uh- Creed and Janis's father that I have it. It would be rude for me not to accept it. And I'm out here to have Creed teach me how to ride it."

"Kyle might have been a terrible husband and a lousy father, but he could build bikes," she said. "That bike is probably worth over thirty thousand dollars."

"If Creed thinks our father would want me to pay for it, he can tell me," I retorted. I knew Creed wasn't made of money, but I was also pretty sure he'd think it was a slap in the face for me to offer to pay for the bike. I mean, our Dad even arranged for the bike to be shipped to my place in Vegas on his dime. I would have been happy to pay for the bike, but I know what it meant to Creed to be able to give me that bike. I was planning on finding other ways of paying him back. Starting with paying all expenses I could while we were here, traveling, and at my house.

"He won't tell you," Mary said, and her eyes flickered over to Creed with an almost pitiful expression, as if her own son was a well-whipped puppy. "His father was an idiot when it came to money, never understood the value of anything but heroin. He'd have wanted to give you the bike out of some misplaced sense of guilt and of course Creed went right along with him, because that's Creed. In his mind, his father could do no wrong."

I wanted to get right in her face, but I was holding myself back. I felt so sorry for Creed that I almost wanted to say screw the hot dogs we were waiting for and just get him out of there.

"Creed," Janis said, before I lost my cool, "Can you go downstairs and switch out a couple of kegs? I'd ask Alex, but he's making your lunch."

Creed drew in a deep, sharp, breath as if he wanted to protest this, but before he could speak, I took over. "That's a good idea," I said, thinking Janis might not be so bad after all. "It's always nice to do a favor for your family."

Creed stared at me, clearly feeling I'd gone over to the side of the enemy, but he slid off the bar stool, walked around the bar and headed into the kitchen.

When I was pretty sure he was out of earshot, I focused my attention back to Mary. "I think I understand now why you and Creed don't get along." I got it that she didn't like her ex, there's a club for people who dislike their exes, it's called "everyone." But I was angry that she had shot down his parenting abilities right in front of her children. It was fine for her to think to herself he was a bad father, it sounded to me like she had her reasons. But it wasn't cool to disrespect him in front of the kids they shared. And even worse, the guy was dead. Who speaks ill about their children's dead father when his kids are around? Apparently, Mary.

"Oh?" Mary said. "Let me guess, you're on Creed's side. He's been filling your head with nonsense about what a terrible mother I am, right?"

I crossed my toes in my sneakers. "No," I said. "I'm drawing that conclusion all by myself."

She flinched as if I've slapped her across the face and I felt a tiny bit bad about how good that made me feel. "Oh, I'm sure he told you about how mean I was to him, he'll bend anyone's ear about that. 'Poor me,'" and her voice switches to a pitiful sounding imitation of her own son. "'My mommy loves my sister more than me, my mom took me from my Daddy when I was ten years old. She wouldn't let him have custody of me until he'd gone clean.' Sob, Sob." She stopped the imitation and glared at me. "I'll bet he never told any of _his_ shenanigans. He used to leave the toilet seat up, deliberately. His teacher kept telling me he was bright, but he barely managed to pass his classes. He always sided with his father, even if it was ridiculous. He'd beg me to take him here with me when I was on the afternoon shift, he'd tell me he wanted to help, then instead of helping, he'd sneak off down the road to visit his junkie of a father."

I so wanted to say that on the last remark, she was an idiot. What kid wants to come and work all afternoon at a dive bar, probably for no pay? _Nobody_ would volunteer to do that, especially not a ten year old kid, of course he was going to have another reason and considering the bar and the house his dad lived in were close to each other, it seemed like a no-brainer. I focused on the first couple sins she mentioned. "Sounds pretty passive aggressive to me," I said. "And I'm not all that surprised. Kids who go down the passive aggressive route usually do it because they're unhappy by their home situation, but feel afraid to talk to their family about it."

I have no clue if this is true or not, but it sounded good and it makes sense. Every so often Neil pulls something like that, not often, but enough that I recognize the behavior. For example, Cinnamon will insist he has to take the trash out on the morning the trash truck is due to arrive, because that's one of his chores. He doesn't want to, so he'll deliberately dick around and avoid his mother. Then, she'll hear the trash truck come onto the street, and since she can't find him, she runs out and takes the trash to the curb. Later, when asked he'll say, "I dunno, I just forgot." Cinnamon doesn't buy it either, and is more than happy to call him on his bullshit. Or, have me call him on his bullshit. It's not that we yell at him, we just discuss it with him. But, he's also a kid, so he might get with the program for a month or two, then slide backwards again. And usually the trash is just part of a bigger picture of attitude given and things not done. Sometimes he does it because he feels he isn't getting enough attention, although I don't know if _he_ realizes that's it. Sometimes the best way to get results is for Cinnamon or I to spend some serious time with him.

One time when he was getting way too lax in rules, she sent him to me for a week, under the guise of, "It wouldn't hurt for you to see how difficult the schedule is for professional wrestlers. This will be a good chance to do that." It was a fun week for both of us. Yeah, he had to go with me from place to place, but we had a lot of time to talk in rental cars and on planes. When he went home, he was excited and back to being his usual, cheerful, fairly obedient self. I can't really fault him for this, he does have a father who just isn't around very much. He also went home to a huge list of additional chores to make up for his earlier behavior, but he did them without question.

But Creed? I think he did it because he felt oppressed and this was the only way he had of feeling he wasn't being smothered by his overbearing mother.

I think I've hit a mark somewhere because Mary is glaring at me. "You might be related to Creed by blood, but_ I'm_ his mother."

I bit my tongue before I said "And you sure are doing a shit job of it." I mostly knew Creed's point of view on things, although her behavior today isn't making me think Creed might be over-exaggerating things. Also, Creed is the one that has to live knowing the woman, I don't. So I shrugged. "I've always wanted a younger brother," I said, and seeing Janis was there, I added, "And a sister. And your son was nice enough to volunteer to teach me how to ride and agreed to accompany me back to my place. It'll be my first really long bike trip, so I'm grateful he'll be with me."

"Oh, when it comes to bikes, he'd be willing to help anyone learn," Mary said, in a tone that indicated she was determined to somehow make every decent and kind thing Creed did come across like a flaw. "He's obsessed with them, just like his dad."

"_Our_ dad," I correct. I get that I probably shouldn't be claiming Kyle rivers as "my" dad, he didn't raise me, I never got a chance to meet him. But Creed lights up when I refer to him as our dad, and I knew Mary wouldn't find it as amusing. I looked over at Janis, who had a faint smile on her face. Maybe there was hope for bitchy sister after all.

"You might not want to claim a relationship with Kyle once you know more about him," Mary said. "That man had nary a decent quality in him. He was lazy, irresponsible, and a drug addict."

"Creed told me about his addiction."

"Well, since you're blood, you might as well know the truth about him," Mary said. Her eyes narrowed into these tiny slits as if her anger might shoot out of her eyes and kill me, so she was trying to keep the worst of it at bay. "Because Creed won't tell you that downside of the man. He won't tell you all the times his father didn't come to his little league games, or the times when he'd show up late, stoned out of his head. He won't tell you the times he hocked my jewelry for drugs, but never had to touch his precious music collection. He won't tell you any of the bad, because in his head, his daddy was perfect and _I_ was the bad guy."

"Yet, at one point, you loved him enough to marry him and have two children," I said, my eyes looking upward as if this might be a sacred moment. What I thought but didn't add was, _So either you were too stupid to see his flaws, or living with you exaserbated them and if that's the case, I am not surprised at all. _

"I think the nachos are done," Janis said and ducked out of there. I wasn't sure if she was going to laugh at my amazing wit and snappy comebacks, or just wanted to be out of range in case her mother went off, opened her eyes fully and the anger death rays began shooting out.

"I'm sure he had his bad side," I said. "I get that, but Mary, stop tearing him down in front of your kids!" I was getting angry too, and maybe I had some death ray anger thing too, because I knew my eyes were narrowing. "They share half of his DNA, did you ever think that when you insult him, you're insulting them, too? And for fuck's sake, the man is_ dead_. Can't you just let him rest in peace and let Creed love him?"

"Yeah, you're his kid all right," Mary said, ignoring my question. "Too mouthy for your own good."

I had trouble believing Kyle was "mouthy" around her. Piecing together what Creed had told me and seeing how she was acting, I was starting to think Kyle's steady relapses with sobriety were because he needed to escape this woman. Wisely though, I didn't share this theory with her. "How about a truce for the sake of Creed? I don't want him to feel divided because his half brother and his mom don't get along."

She didn't get a chance to answer me, because Creed and Janis walked out of the kitchen together, Janis carrying a huge plate of nachos. Creed walked out from behind the bar and sat down on the stool next to me. "Job's done," he said, taking one of the chips from the nacho pile and putting it in his mouth.

"I'm surprised you still remember how to change over a keg," Mary said. "Not like you did it a lot."

I look over at Creed, who shrugged as he chewed. I saw something in his eyes and I knew he was telling me not to tell his mother he worked in the competition bar on the other side of town. I was surprised his mother didn't know that already, this was a small town, why hadn't anyone just let it slip?

"I've got a pretty good memory," Creed said, by way of explanation once he was able to talk without his mouth full.

"Yes," Mary said, dryly. "I keep forgetting how _smart _you are. Probably because you sloughed your way through school. If _I_ hadn't intervened, you would have dropped out when you were sixteen."

"I might as well have," Creed shot back. His mother had crossed some line in his head and he was going to fight back. I was pretty glad to see it, to be honest. "What was the point of getting good grades? It wasn't like I was going to go to college."

"You don't know that," Mary shot back.

"Yes, I do," Creed insisted stubbornly. "Janis had a full scholarship to Michigan State and you wouldn't let her go. Instead you roped her into working for your shitty bar. And she was the one you_ liked! _ If you weren't going to let her go to college, fully paid, you sure weren't going to let me even go to trade school."

"Like you wanted to go to college!" Mary's anger was still a little stronger than Creeds, but I had the feeling Marymon was one nasty comment away from having Creed not only match her but go beyond. "You're lazy and irresponsible just like-" She stopped herself before she could say what I knew she wanted, "Just like your father." She really had a hate-on for the man. She was trying to honor my truce agreements, but years of knocking Kyle Ryvers down had made that a difficult feat. "You probably still want to be a professional _wrestler._" She turned her attention to me, "Did he tell you that? That his dream growing up was to be a 'professional' wrestler? Because_ that's _a wise career choice." She snorted as if she expected me to gasp and join her side that instant.

Creed cringed, and so did Janis, which told me, maybe Janis knew who I was, which I wanted to confirm at some point, but not now. Right now I wasn't going to come clean on who I was, not to Mary at least. "What's _wrong_ with wanting to be a professional wrestler?" I said. "Some of them make _really_ good money and your son is athletic, I've seen him working out."

"Yeah, but for every-" she paused, and I knew she was trying to think of the name of a famous wrestler, "for every_ Hulk Hogan,_ there are a hundred guys making nothing, even losing money, hoping to be discovered."

"So?" I said. "He can work and wrestle in his spare time. If it's his dream, let him go for it. Two weeks in a good training camp will let him know if he should stick to the dream or find something else. A lot faster than four years of college."

I must have started to sound as angry as her, because Janis stopped looking like she was quietly freaking and instead decided to tackle the bitch attached to the womb she came out of. "Mom, don't you have some paperwork to go over? That's why you came in the afternoon, remember?"

Mom whirled from me to face Janis and I expected her to start laying into Janis, but instead she nodded. "You're right, why waste my time on - on- _this._" She made a general wave in mine and Creed's direction as if we were a basket full of shit stained laundry she didn't want to touch. "You let them finish their lunch, and you make them pay for it, then you tell them they aren't welcome here."

"We_ heard_ you," I said, before I could think. "Don't worry, I'll be happy to pay for this. And don't worry about me coming here, I've had about all I can stand of you."

She turned back to me, and I thought she might come over and slap my face, but instead she turned away again, and mercifully, stormed into the kitchen.

The bar wasn't busy, except for the group of guys playing pool. Surely they must have heard Mary and I having our shouting match. But not one of them had come forward to see what was going on. Either it was just another day at the Spirited Heron, or they were trying to respect that families fought and it was best to stay away. But, now that the place was quiet, a lot of them came up to get beers. Several said hello to Creed, who said hello back. A few gave me that nod people give when they're acknowledging you're there, but knowing this is not the time for introductions.

Janis got our hot dogs, which were cold, no doubt because their cook wasn't going to bring them out when the verbal shooting match was going on. A hot, deep fried hot dog might be awesome, but a cold deep fried hot dog is downright terrible. But I ate them and so did Creed. We ate every single bite, silently agreeing we weren't going to let Mary know she'd made us lose our appetite. Janis said nothing and made herself busy either getting beers for the pool players, or cleaning around her.

When we had eaten every bite, Creed reached for his wallet, but I stopped him. "Please, let me," I said, and before he could object, I took out my wallet and whipped out a fifty. I called out to Janis, who came over. "Here," I said, handing her the bill. "Keep the change." I'd be giving her over a hundred percent tip, but that was fine, I just wanted to get out of there.

She stared at the bill, then at me. "You don't have to-" she began.

"Yes," I said, keeping my voice down in case Mary was able to hear into the bar. "I do. Because you have to live with that woman, and you deserve to be paid." Before she could respond, I clapped Creed on the shoulder. "Let's roll."

We went outside and as we were putting the pieces of wood we used for the kickstands against the wall, Janis came rushing out. "You forgot your receipt," she said coming over and practically shoving it in my hands. She really thought the receipt mattered? Even Creed gave her a puzzled look. I didn't want to throw it away in front of her, so I stuffed it in my back pocket to throw away later.

.

.

I was willing to give Creed the day off from wrestling lessons, considering I'd sorta forced him into going to the bar. But I was pleased when he shook his head. "I really need to do something," he admitted. "Something to fill my head, you know? And I don't have any wood projects, so let's have me run the ropes until I'm puking or exhausted or something, anything else."

I didn't make him run the ropes for three hours, and he didn't puke. But, I gave him a good, hard training session. I got his cardio up and then we did weights. I was thinking maybe we should order lousy pizza again, but Creed insisted he was going to grill up those steaks he still had in the refrigerator. It turned out that Creed is pretty good on a grill, the steaks were delicious.

It wasn't until I was taking off my pants and getting ready to go to bed that I remembered the receipt. I pulled it out of my pocket and went to toss it in the trash can in the bathroom. Then I noticed there was something written on it, so I took a closer look. There was a telephone number on it. I knew it had to be for Janis.

I waited half an hour so Creed would fall asleep, then slipped outside with my cell phone. I had already put the number into my contacts list, so I didn't have to fumble in the dark to read the numbers, because yeah, no street lights around here. I realized that I had never quite experienced pitch blackness before. Unless my phone was lit, I couldn't see anything.

It was ten at night, and I debated if it might be too late, then shrugged. If it was, oh well, hopefully she'd turned her phone ringer off. I hit the call button.

After the second ring, she answered. "Hello?" her voice was cautious, but I wasn't surprised, my cell phone caller ID just flashes the number, so I could have been a spammer.

"Janis? It's Dean."

"Dean," she repeated. Her voice was soft. "I'm, uhm, glad you called. I'm sure you got a terrible impression of our family today, but-" Her voice trailed off and she changed her tactics. "Look, I don't want to get into it over the phone, can we meet for coffee or something?"

"Now?" I asked.

"Yes," she said, "Unless you're busy."

I thought about it. Whatever Janis had to say, I was curious to hear it, she was my half sister after all. "Okay," I said, "Is there a place open around here? Creed says they kind of roll up the sidewalks when it gets dark."

"There's a diner a couple miles off the interstate. It's a 24 hour place. I can give you directions, or just the address, if you have a GPS.

"I do have GPS in the rental car," I said. "Give me the address." I slipped back into the house and found a pen and a pad of paper right by the landline phone in the living room. It struck me as a very organized thing. I lowered my voice and asked her for the address. She gave it to me, I wrote it down.

"If you're hungry, they have shitty food," she said. "Well, except for the pancakes. Those are outstanding."

"How's their coffee?" I asked. Cinnamon had made me a coffee snob after all.

"It goes really well with their shitty food," Janis said.

Well, so I wasn't going to get good coffee that night. It wouldn't be the first time or the last. "Okay," I said. "I'll meet you there as... soon as I can get there."


	11. Chapter 11

_Wrestling is a universal language. The moves, the facial expressions, most people understand._

-Shinsuke Nakamura

* * *

.

{o}-{o}-{o}

.

**Chapter Eleven**

.

_**Dean **_

I walked into the diner about a half hour later. Janis was already there, sitting at one of the booths that was facing the windows. She waved and I came over and slid in across from her. "Wow, this really _is_ a diner," I said. The place looked like it was last decorated in the '50s. It wasn't retro, it had just aged.

She shrugged. "It's sort-of a landmark around here," she said. "It was built in the 1940s."

I could tell from her tone she didn't want to discuss the diner, so I grabbed the empty cup that had been sitting upside down by the sad looking paper place mat that was mostly ads for other businesses. . There was already one of those thermos type pitchers that are really good at keeping hot coffee at room temperature. I filled my cup from it, and took a sip. It had that horrible burnt taste so famous with lousy coffee. I started adding cream to it. "you're right, this _is _pretty shitty," I said. There was a greasy, laminated menu behind the sugar/salt/pepper dispenser and I grabbed it.

"Order whatever you want," Janis said. "It's on me."

"Don't worry about me and money," I said. "I've got plenty, I'll buy."

"No, I insist," Janis said. "I've got the cash. You won't believe it, but someone gave me a fifty dollar bill when all they had were a few hot dogs and a plate of nachos."

I saw the faint twinkle in her eye and I smiled. "Well, then, sure, you can buy me breakfast."

We ordered from the waitress, both of us ordering steak and eggs. it wasn't as expensive as you would imagine and it was pretty much all protein. When I hesitated on the toast/muffin/pancake option, Janis spoke up. "If wrestlers can take a break from the high protein low carb lifestyle when they're on vacation, I recommend the pancakes. They're really good here. They're even better with the warm, blueberry compote."

I ordered the pancakes, grateful that I'm at least working out a lot on this vacation. It wasn't until we both ordered ordered and the waitress was gone, that it hit me, she talked about my being a wrestler. I looked up at her. "You know who I am." It was a statement, not a question.

She nodded. "Our mother hates wrestling and I'm not going to say it's my favorite thing to watch, but sometimes on Mondays and Tuesdays, I've been known to check it out." She lowered her head and fluttered her lashes, "So, tell me, Dean, is Roman as handsome in person?"

"Roman is every bit as handsome in person," I said solemnly. "Not only is he as handsome as he looks on TV, but according to his wife, he's goddamn fantastic in the sack. He's a fertility god. All three of us got our wives pregnant on the same vacation, and I swear it was because Roman's pheromones just put all three women in high ovulation mode. Seth and I got daughters, Roman's magnificent pheromones gave him twin boys. He had twins because he had to outdo us. If we weren't on the road all the time, he and Jessica would probably hold the Guinness record for the most number of children."

She laughed. "Surely you exaggerate."

"No, I swear it's all true," I said, "And don't call my Shirley."

"I _loved_ that movie," she said, still laughing.

I had the feeling she didn't want to get into why she'd asked me to meet her here until our food was delivered, probably to assure a lack of interruptions. I followed lead and we laughed and joked about trivial things until our food arrived. She seemed so normal then, like someone I could maybe like. So, why was Creed so pissed about her? Then, I remembered the whole thing that she couldn't be bothered to visit their dying father, even if it was just to give Creed a break. I told myself to remember to ask her about that.

Once we had settled down to eating, had our pitcher of room temperature coffee refilled, she got to the point. "I know you think Mom's a bitch," she began, then took a small bite of her scrambled eggs.

"That's an understatement," I said. "The words I think really describe your mother are not the words the father of a fourteen year old and a toddler should say, even though my kids are a thousand miles away." I started eating my eggs. I like over medium eggs and these were exactly that. Over medium. It was awesome. Over medium eggs are something most people cannot get right. I was starting to think Janis had exaggerated the whole "Shitty food" thing.

She nodded. "I get it, she's pretty bitter." She continued taking small bites of the eggs or the steak, or pancakes. In that, she reminded me of Seth. Seth always took one bite of each item of food in rotation. He claims that's the only true way to appreciate the entire meal as a whole. I think it makes all the food taste like crap. I eat one thing at a time.

"Lemons are sweet compared to her," I said, as I finished one egg and started on the second. Part of me was a little ashamed of saying this, it was her mother after all, but I was still pissed off at the woman.

"You didn't exactly see her at her best," Janis said. "It's not like she knew you were coming, you and Creed just sprang it on her. Creed never comes to the bar when Mom's there and rarely when I am."

"It sounds to me like you've always been a family divided," I said. "You and your mom against Creed and our father. I suspect your mother was hoping to one day snatch Creed up and mold him into the person she wants him to be and that's bullshit. It's two against one, and I'm here to even the odds." I started working on that second egg, eyeing the steak. The whole meal was under ten bucks, I was sure that steak was going to be tough as nails.

"I know it looks that way," Janis said. "And I'll be the first person to admit I had an almost impossible time loving my dad. But I'm not against Creed, trust me." Before I could say something, she continued, "Did Creed tell you what happened when my parents got divorced? Did he tell you the final straw that broke the camel's back?"

I shook my head.

"Then Kyle didn't tell him, either," She mused. "I was sixteen and I was more aware of what was going on than Creed was. I loved my dad back then, but I was so sick of his drug use. He'd go clean for a bit, then go right back to using. I got tired of the times he nodded off. It was so bad that when Creed was a baby, I had to be home every minute my mom wasn't, to make sure my dad didn't nod off and accidentally drop Creed or burn down the house. And he still managed to drop Creed once, trying to feed him. Creed probably doesn't remember but his right arm and half of his back was bruised horribly. That was my life. I didn't want to have friends over, because I was ashamed that my dad would do something stupid because he was high. I couldn't go out with my friends very often, because Mom worked the night shift at the bar, and someone had to be home. I was a kid and I felt like I was the parent." She sighed and took a few more bites. eggs first, then steak, then pancakes. The pancakes being in the mix was what _really_ blew me away. Pancakes are the dessert of breakfast. You don't eat them with your eggs and steak. Either the pancakes will taste like eggs and steak, or your eggs and steak will taste like maple syrup, or in her case, blueberry compote.

I took the first bite of the steak, which had been as difficult to cut as I thought it would be, and tasted barely like steak and more like a tire.

I'd done a lot of things for my mother too, before I got fed up and left home, so I knew where Janis had sat all those years ago. I forget how many times I had gotten on my mom's case to take a shower because she stank so badly. How many times I watched as she almost nodded off while making dinner, almost burning herself on the stove. I must have cleaned up an Olympic sized swimming pool full of puke from the times when she couldn't score and started to go through withdrawal. "I know the feeling," I said, softly. "I don't want to get into it, but my Mom's a recovering addict so I know the road you walked. It sucked."

"Yeah," She said. "But I coped, you know? I kept my grades up, because I could study while being in the same room as my dad, so I could watch him. Part of me knew I deserved better than this, but still it was my life and it could have been worse. My mom was getting fed up with his on again, off again drug use too. He wasn't exactly contributing much to the house, financially. He'd find work, he was a damned good carpenter as you've probably realized staying at the house, but a drug habit isn't cheap. But we all lived with it, until one day, a few months before my sixteenth birthday."

"What happened?" I asked. It sounded like life was pretty shitty for Mom and Janis and had been for a long time. What happened to tip it over the edge?

"I came home from School," Janis said. "I had a friend with me, Brenda Carter. Normally, I didn't like to bring anyone home, but Creed was in school then, and he was going to a friend's house after, and my dad was supposed to be doing work with his handyman friend Carl. Brenda and I weren't even going to stick around. I just wanted to get something, I can't remember what, change my clothes, and we were going to go to her house and study. Brenda was older and she had her license, and that's how we got to the house. So, we walk inside and I'm thinking we're going to be alone. I saw Dad's truck in the yard, but I didn't think twice about it, because Carl often picked Dad up. That truck of his was always breaking down."

"What happened when you went inside?" I asked, getting this feeling of real dread in the pit of my stomach. It wouldn't be good, I knew it. I'd tried a couple times to bring friends home from school with me, and it never worked out well.

"We came inside and... Dad was on the floor in the living room, and, uh, he still had his works, you know? the band around his arm, and a goddamned needle hanging from it too. He'd probably gotten his hands on a bunch of stuff and was sitting around binge shooting. I was mortified, Brenda was gasping in shock, and I knew if I didn't do something, my dad was going to die."

She paused and I knew it was so she could collect her thoughts again. "What did you do?" I asked, to buy her some time. "I mean, Kyle hasn't even been dead for six months, so you must have done something."

"My mom had friends that got her some Naloxone. The nasal spray wasn't around then, and it wasn't something the average person was supposed to have, but Mom must have convinced someone that if she didn't have access to something, my dad would die before the paramedics could get out to the house. She'd shown it to me once, so I knew where it was. So, I went and grabbed it and used it on him. He came out of his heroin coma. While I was saving his life, Brenda just split. It was never quite the same with her and I after that. I mean, we still talked, we pretended nothing was wrong, but when you're sixteen and you come from a very conservative Christian household, you don't expect to have to watch your friend saving the life of her junkie father." She sighed.

"Then what happened?" I asked. I'd taken a few bites of the steak which tasted better once I poured ketchup all over it. I probably should have ordered the chicken though, I'd had red meat earlier. Then again, I _was_ on vacation.

She shrugged. "I called my mom and told her what happened. Dad was awake and bitching that the Naloxone was ruining his high. The man had almost _died_, and all he cared about was that I'd messed up his alone time with heroin. Mom found someone to cover her shift at the bar and came home. I was crying, Dad was complaining, and I think something in Mom just broke and she realized she didn't love him anymore, that he'd pushed her love for him over the edge and it wasn't coming back."

"Creed said his father had been sober for six months when she left him," I said, taking another bite of tomato enriched steak. "Was he not remembering correctly?"

She shook her head. "No, he got that right. My sobbing, Mom's yelling, and the OD convinced Kyle to try to go clean again. But my mom was just...done, you know? Too much, too little and way too late."

I understood that, perfectly too. I'd watched my mother get on that merry-go-round a few times. Drugs, rehab, a little bit of sober, then right back to drugs. "You and your mother never told Creed about the overdose, did you?" I asked.

She shook her head. "Mom and I discussed it. Creed worshiped Kyle.. If he could, he'd follow him around all day. We decided that it would crush him and he might not understand what was going on. I don't know if it was a good idea to spare him that or not. Maybe if we'd told him, he'd understand how bad it was with Dad. But we didn't. We wanted him to have good memories of his dad, because we were pretty sure he was going to one day, sooner rather than later, end up dead. But that six months of sobriety didn't convince my mother it was permanent. She was afraid one of us would come home and find our father dead on the floor. She left him. I think she figured six months was enough to stay while he got sober and after that it was up to him to stay that way. It didn't work. Less than a month after mom left, Dad was using again."

"Maybe he was unable to get over your mother leaving him?" I suggested, as I finished up the last of the steak.

"Or, maybe he just wanted an excuse to go back on drugs," she countered. "To be honest, when we left and moved into my grandparents house, I had no desire to ever see Kyle Ryvers again. Yeah, living with Mom could be rough, but at least I didn't have to worry about finding a dead father on the floor, or an almost dead father. I didn't have to be scared all the time that if I wasn't around, he'd get hurt. Creed was the one that wanted to see him. Mom forbade him at first, but he started sneaking to the house. I will give Kyle one thing, he brought Creed back home or to the bar every single time, right away too. If he was sober, he'd drive, if he wasn't, he'd get one of his friends. But that's about _all_ I'll give him."

"Yet your mom gave him custody of Creed." I eyed my pancakes, marveling at how fluffy they looked. I like fluffy pancakes, even if they're bad for me. Hey, I'd passed on the hash browns, which came with the meal, I was being good. Well, sort of good. Okay, not as bad as I could have been, I settled for that.

She nodded. "She didn't want to, trust me. But Creed was... well, out of control. I know that's hard to believe when he's being his usual, laid back self, but it's the truth."

"What was he doing?" I asked. I'd pushed my plate aside and pulled the plate of pancakes over to me. Yeah, they looked good, they smelled good, I sure was putting a lot of responsibility on those pancakes, I hoped they'd live up to it.

"Anything he could. I know Mom makes a huge deal about the toilet seat being left up, but he rarely did it before the divorce, even Kyle didn't leave the seat up and he'd taught Creed not to as well. But we leave and it's like he forgot that rule. Maybe he didn't realize he was doing it, some subconscious thing, but he was doing it. He also would push everything. If he was supposed to be home at five o'clock, he'd come home at five thirty. If Mom asked him to clean his room, he'd ignore her or throw everything in the closet or under the bed. And I get that all kids do that from time to time, but he would do it _all the time_. He wasn't belligerent to Mom or me. If we yelled at him, he'd stare at his feet and say nothing. My mother would eventually demand that he answer her and tell her he wouldn't do it again. He would tell her that, then just do it again. Mom just didn't know what to do with him, but she knew what he wanted, to live with our father, and Kyle and Creed kept begging her to give in. She finally gave in, but she put her stipulations on it. Kyle had to sober up and stay sober. I guess having custody of Creed was enough incentive for him to stay clean. My mom made him test every month until Creed was eighteen to make sure he stayed clean."

I had taken a bite of my pancakes by then, and I'd almost interrupted just to moan. Okay, the food there _was_ pretty shitty and the coffee miserable, but damn, this place knew how to make _good_ pancakes. It made IHOP's pancakes seem weak. I had to control myself or I'd have started stuffing my mouth like I'd never eaten before. "Okay, I can get all that," I said, once my mouth was no longer full of delicious blueberry pancakes. "I can understand why your Mom is all upset, no one wants to be the secondary parent." I thought back to when I first met Neil and didn't know him, how awkward we were around each other. Our bonding moment was my rescuing him from the well he'd fallen down. But before that, it was so frustrating, knowing that I was the unpopular parent. "But he thinks you are just like your mother. He's given me examples too, like you got on his case for not having a lot of friends when he got back from the trip."

"I worry about him," she said. "He _should_ have friends his age. Once he went to live with Dad, it was Kyle became the only person that mattered. Do you blame me for thinking he should have friends closer to his age? I mean, I'm kinda still in shock about you being our half brother, but I was thrilled when I saw him come in with you, because you weren't in your late '50s, early '60s. I hadn't even realized who you were then, I just saw someone closer to Creed's age."

"I _am_ over ten years older than him," I reminded her.

"That's okay," she said. "You aren't old enough to be his father, unless you were a really early bloomer. And, you both had this look about you that said friends. Creed may call most of Kyle's friends by their first name, but he still has this... well, subservient air when he's with them. Like they are always in charge." She paused, "Except for maybe Angelo."

I was finishing up my pancakes, and almost wanting another order. "Who's Angelo?"

"One of Kyle's crazy friends," she said. "Well, probably the only one who's really crazy. He likes doing the franken bike thing, and he's not always careful about where he gets his parts, if you catch my drift." She saw me eyeing the empty pancake dish and smiled. "Do you want another order?"

"More than anything else in the world, but I don't think I should," I said, then got back to the subject. "Why didn't you or your mom not help him out when your father was so sick? I mean, he's really upset about that. I think he could forgive everything you've done, if you hadn't done that to him. It sounds to me like the kid was trapped in the house to take care of your dad towards the end. Would it have killed you to go over and let Creed leave the house?"

"I can't answer for Mom, but I- well, " she faltered on the last bit. "I didn't know he didn't have any help at all," she finally said, "I thought they were sending around someone for home health care. I didn't know Creed was doing it all by himself. Kyle's friends told me that they had gone to see him and I thought maybe they were helping Creed out."

I could see Creed being the type not to tell his mother and sister he needed help, just assuming they should offer it, but that wasn't all of it. "Why did you refuse to visit your father? That Creed had to call and tell you he was going to be dead real soon so you would come?"

She drew in one of those deep, cutting breaths. "I was still angry at him, Kyle, I mean," she admits. She pauses and pours herself another cup of awful coffee and busies herself putting cream and sugar in it. When she realizes she can't fiddle around and waste time any longer, the coffee is as set as it's going to be, she draws in another breath and looks at me. "I'm _still _angry at Kyle. Really angry. Even worse, I got twice as angry when Creed and our Dad was together, I hated them both. It sounds harsh, but it's the truth. I didn't go see him and Mom always reinforced my choice. 'You don't owe him anything and you saved his life.'" She does a pretty good imitation of her mother in bitch mode, like I saw her in today. "I know I should have gone over that more than once, but I can't take it back. If I could I would."

Being someone who has a few parent issues myself, I get where she's coming from. I'm not sure I'm ready to give her a pass, but I don't think she's nearly as horrible as Creed thinks she is. "Why were you so angry at our father? Why did you hate it when you had to see him and Creed together?"

"Because - " She sputtered the word, then paused, took a sip of her drink, as if horrible coffee would give her courage, then looked me in the eye. "Kyle and his stupid drugs just ruined everything, you know? All kids want to live in a happy house, and we didn't. I get it, if you have a belly button you came from a dysfunctional family, but most folks don't have to babysit their dad all the time because he's too fucked up to be left alone with their baby brother and Mom has to support us. Most kids don't have to be taught how to administer overdose meds in case their dad messes up."

"That doesn't explain why you hated it when Creed and Kyle were together," I reminded her. "Creed was motivation enough for your father to get clean, I'd think you'd appreciate that."

"On the one hand I did," she said, "On the other that made it worse. How come Creed could be the magic fix that got him off drugs for good, but Mom and_ I _couldn't?"

Oh yeah, I could relate to that, I often wondered that myself. Why was mom unable to get off drugs when I lived with her, but she could give them up for good only when I walked out on her forever? I get it all on that situation. Poor Janis had to be the caretaker all those years while her dad fucked up his life, but Creed, who was younger and kept sheltered, was able to be the magic formula. I didn't know what to say, so I fiddled with my coffee, sipping it as if it were some delicious brew Cinnamon had come up with, not the crap it actually was. when I'd wasted too much time on that coffee, I finally said, "I get that. I've been in the same boat."

She looked at me then, sized me up as if she was trying to read my mind, then sighs. "Maybe you do. But, I didn't ask you to meet me so I could hash the past. I just wanted to catch you up so you knew where Mom and I were coming from."

"I still say your mom is a bitch," I said. "I get all that resentment towards our dad, trust me, I do. But he's dead now, so your mother needs to get off his ass."

"I agree," she said. "And that's why I gave you my number." I don't quite get how the two were connected, but before I can ask, she continues. "I knew who you were the moment you walked in the bar. A professional wrestler. Hearing you were my dad's son? I understood that our dad might have contributed to that. Maybe wrestling run in families?"

"It seem to," I said.

"I always thought Dad did that stupid amateur professional wrestling crap, just so he'd have an excuse to hang out with his friends and talk shit. Kyle might have been a little shy in real life, but put a pair of Speedos on him, and he was the most outgoing guy you ever met. I never really thought it was something all that important to him. But, maybe it was. When Creed was younger, I thought he only wanted to be a wrestler because our mother hated wrestling, our dad loved it. So, when he said he'd given up that dream when he was twelve, I believed him. But, I think he was lying, wasn't he?"

"Yeah," I said. _I _wasn't going to lie to her. "He still entertains the notion. Our father was training him up to join the promotion until he got sick. I've been training him in the afternoon."

She nodded, took a sip of her coffee, put the cup down and looked at me. "Your giving him lessons. Be honest with me, does he have a shot?"

I didn't have to lie, not that I would have. "He does," I said. "He's already a good wrestler, at least with the wrestling part. He needs a lot of work on the microphone, but I know he can learn to be a badass, it's in him."

"Can you get him into the professional part of it when he_ is_ good enough?" she asked. "There are thousands of other wrestlers wanting to make it big, can _you_ help him do it?"

I wondered how much to tell her then I decided to tell all. "I can open doors for him. It's up to him to walk through them. I can make sure he's seen by the right people. I won't lean on anyone to put him in their promotion, that's wrong, but I can make sure he gets his chance. But I won't be able to do that overnight. He's got to be trained more."

"Do you know how that can be done?"

Oh, I knew all right, but would she want to hear this? "Look, you know we're going together to visit my family. We're taking a bike trip and he's going to stay a month. Near where we live is a small promotion where my wife is the paramedic they use in case of emergencies. She does it for free, just for admission. They would do anything she asked. I also know all the wrestlers. I know I could convince the boss to take on Creed. They will let him wrestle in matches, while they train him to get better on the microphone. He'll be the whipping boy first, but as he starts to prove himself, he'll rise. And, if I feel he needs it, I'll send him down to SPWA, Roman's Dad's camp. It's not cheap, but he won't have to worry about that. I'll pay for him to go." I looked at her. "But you know what that means, don't you?"

"He'll have to move away," she said.

"Yeah," I said. "Now, friend wise, we both agree he's lacking so I don't think that will be an issue. The guys at WVW, a lot are near his age and they're all pretty friendly. They'll take him in. But Creed has other things that connect him here. The house, the bike shop, wood working area, your dad's music collection. That's hard stuff to give up."

"Things can be packed and shipped," Janis said, and that's when I knew I had another ally. "There is nothing to stop him even from flying out here, renting a truck and loading it up with that stuff. The issue will be if he can find a place big enough to put it all in."

"He can store it in our barn for now," I said. "It's a full sized barn. I know he'll be welcome to set up his woodworking stuff. The wife and I have a big fixer-upper of a house and we'd love to give him a job helping Cinnamon get the place finished. He can probably do that for a few _years_, it's a very big house. But, he can't exactly pack up the house and I know he loves that place."

She nods. "If he doesn't charge me an outrageous rent, I can probably swing living there. I could do the utilities, taxes, all of that. And it's a lot closer to work."

"And a lot further from you mom, at least when you're both off the clock," I said.

She squinted at me, but nodded. "Creed may dislike me, but he trusted me to take care of the place when he went to give you the bike. He knows I'll take good care of the place. Yeah, I might move into the master bedroom, but that's a small price to pay, I think."

"It's a great bedroom," I said. "I'm using it. And if Creed takes the music collection, you'll have lots of shelves to put things."

She laughed at that, then grew serious. "Have you talked about any of this with him?

I shook my head. "The kid's a little skittish, if you haven't noticed. I was afraid to dump all of this on him, in case he decided to run off. No, I want to take him home with me and show him all of this and then ask him. He's got the right to see what he might be getting into."

She nods. "Do it," she says. "I know, he's over twenty one, what I say doesn't mean anything, but I think the best thing for Creed is to get out of here. Get away from all those memories, get away from being... the mascot for The Michigan Wheeler's. He's twenty-one, he's got to get a life of his own and stop walking in Dad's shadow. Even if he's only gone for a few years, it will give him a fresh start when he comes back. He'll be used to being treated like an equal. The friends of dad that are still around? They'll see that, see that he's an adult. But, maybe he won't have to come back unless he's visiting. Maybe he'll really become a wrestler."

"And you'll be able to watch him on RAW or Smackdown," I said. "As long as your mother isn't around."

She smiled at my calling out of Mom. "I don't know if I can fix my relationship with my brother, I have been pretty bitchy to him. But, he's not as innocent as he claims. I've felt enough verbal knives to the chest that came from him. But I don't think it can be fixed as long as he's living here. Too much bad blood, it taints you, you know? That house he lives in is a constant reminder of our dad. He needs to get away from that death, you know?"

I did know, so I nodded. By now the waitress had taken our dirty dishes away and left the check and I barely noticed. Janis picked it up, looked at it, then dropped a twenty and a ten on it. Remembering the prices I read in the menu she's leaving a pretty generous tip. "While I'd love to talk to you all night, Dean, I do have to get some sleep," she said, getting up from the table.

"I could use some too," I said, getting up as well. She's a tall girl, probably 5' 10", maybe a little taller. She didn't have to crane her neck to look up at me. She offered me her hand. I think for a moment, then shake it and say, "C'mon, no hug for your newly discovered big brother?"

She smiled. "I wasn't sure if we were that close, yet." She moved in and we hugged. Not a long hug, but long enough that I felt we'd established some type of relationship that night. I wasn't sure if I was ready to tell Creed I liked his sister after all, but I didn't think there was any rush on that.

* * *

_**Authors Note: **_Sorry I'm publishing this so late this week. I've had one of those colds where all I could do was sleep. I still haven't shaken it, but at least I'm able to stay awake more than a couple hours.

Also, I'm at the end of what I've prewritten and I'm writing as I go now, so this might make publishing times a little less organized.


	12. Chapter 12

_A cold hamburger can be reheated quite nicely by strapping it to an exhaust pipe and riding forty miles._

-Unknown.

* * *

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**Chapter Twelve**

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{o}-{o}-{o}

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_**Creed**_

_**.**_

I had both hoped and expected Dean to be a good ride once he started, but even I was surprised at how fast he took to it. By the end of his first week here, I felt like I was caging him by letting him only ride on the forgotten road in front of the house. So, the second week, we started riding to the Horse's Bass after wrestling lessons. We'd get something to eat and have a couple beers and when it got dark out, head back to the house, training him to ride in the dark.

I knew the only thing he really had to do was keep riding and learn to ride longer trips. Glen came over a few evenings too in that second week and pretty much ran Dean through beginner safety classes and agreed with me. "That guy is born to ride, it's easy to tell you're both blood."

If only he knew how much blood we were.

We started taking longer trips too, which meant sometimes I didn't get my wrestling lessons, but we both figured that once we were visiting his place in West Virginia, he could spend more time teaching me. The most important thing here was to get him in shape for making that ride.

We discussed the trip too. We could take the highways and it would be about a thousand miles and we could take lots of stops. But, I thought we should take some of the back roads, travel by way of Ohio rather than the fastest way.

"It's not just the destination," I said. "That's for car trips. When you're on a bike, the journey is just as important."

We were fortunate enough to have some rainy days, so we could go out in the rain. Riding in the rain can be really frightening the first couple times, and one of those times it was night and I had him riding. But Dean never said no. He slowed down considerably his first night in the rain ride, but he never suggested we should try another time.

By the end of the second week, he got to go to Glen's advanced Safety class on Saturday morning. No, he didn't get an official certificate, but Glen said he could have if he'd been a resident in the state. That night we decided to go to a steakhouse that was located right outside of the city, which meant it would be about a half hour ride. We went into the shop to get the bikes. Dean started to get on the Honda and I shook my head. "You're not riding the Honda," I said, "you get to move up to _your_ bike."

He looked over at the bike my dad had ridden that was now his. "Are you serious?" he asked and I was thrilled to hear the delight in his voice.

"Dead serious," I said. "It'll take a little getting used to, from the Honda, but you can do it. We'll take it slow."

We did start out pretty slow, but as Dean got used to the extra weight and the softer, cruiser suspension, he found his way and started giving the throttle a little more of a work out, which made me smile. I knew he was being careful, that the last thing he wanted to do was dump this bike, so when he started going faster, I knew it meant he was more comfortable, that he was learning to become one with the bike.

We got to the Steakhouse, and it was cranking, with this being a Saturday night, so the two of us decided to sit in the bar area. We had been pretty good when we could, eating a whole lot of chicken and fish cooked on the grill, and seeing this was a special occasion, in its own way, we both went for the bone in rib eye. The big one too, with the fixings. I did get the baked potato, but Dean got a double order of vegetables.

"I envy you, Creed," he said, as I was demolishing that potato. "You're still young enough that you can eat anything and everything and not have to worry about putting on weight."

"Uh, dude, you work out enough, do you really have to be that careful?"

"It's a bit of an issue," He said. "Lot's of protein, light on the carbs and starches. Good carbs, like the ones that come from fruits and veggies aren't bad, but empty carbs aren't. And if you do the good carbs, pick the ones that give good fiber too. It's all a thing with checks and balances."

"Which is why you'll eat eight eggs for breakfast?" I asked.

He grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right. He would do that too, eat _eight_ eggs, scrambled with a little bit of milk, and that was it for breakfast, besides coffee. I at least liked toast with my breakfast. Or bacon. Okay, _especially_ bacon. The candy of meats. He shifted slightly on the bar stool so he could see me better. "What do we want to get accomplished this week?"

"More riding," I said. "Get you used to your new ride, because you noticed it felt different. Hopefully, we'll get another rainstorm because I'd like you to try it in the rain before we take off. If not, we'll wing it. We'll take a couple longer, day trips too, see how you handle them."

"You've said I've learned faster than you thought I would," he said. "Do you think we'll be able to leave earlier?"

I nodded. "Yeah, we could probably leave the middle of the week after. We'll take a few days, maybe more to get to where you live, so we won't have to burn you out. And, we can stop in Cincinnati if you want."

He eyed me suspiciously. "Why would I want to go to Cincinnati?" he asked.

"Because that's where you're from," I said, shrugging. "I thought you might have friends there you'd like to visit." I didn't say that maybe he should think about visiting his mother, because he could shoot right back that my mom and I weren't exactly cuddly and warm, but he had told me he wanted to have some type of relationship with her. Maybe seeing her without his wife and kids around might help the two of them hash it out.

"Friends, huh?" he mumbled, then changed the subject. "What are you going to do about your house while we're gone? Do we have to do something to secure it? Like empty the well or something?"

I shrugged trying not to laugh. _Empty the well?_ He really didn't understand what it was like to live in the country. "I'll probably ask Janis if she wants to stay there," I said. "The last time I offered to let her use my bike, but not this time. Still, I think she'll do it and if she wants a bike, she can ride the Honda."

He nodded. We hadn't really talked much about my family since the day he'd met Janis and Mom. We had talked a fair bit about Dad, he was curious about the man. He'd also gotten the chance to meet a few of Dad's friends who stopped by. So far, bald Dean in a baseball cap seemed to be pulling off this disguise. Although, I wondered about a couple of Dad's friends, guys he was closer to than others. He might have told him that Dean Ambrose was his son. But, if he did, they played it close to the chest, no doubt figuring if Dean wanted folks to know who he was, he would have told them.

.

Taking the way with the least amount of highways was a bit over 700 miles and according to Google Maps would take over 15 hours. "Let's make our goal 150 miles a day," I suggested. "Give ourselves five days to do it."

"That seems a little weak," he said. "I can ride longer than that."

"I know," I said, although I wondered how he'd feel after a few days. After some of our day trips, I'd noticed he walked a little funny. He never complained, but I knew that bowlegged walk. "But a light schedule will give us a chance to break routine. If we see an interesting road, or we hear about something we'd like to check out, we can. The worst problem we'll have is that if nothing interests us, we'll get to West Virginia early. I know you're eager to get home, but you learned so fast that we'll be leaving early, we've got the time. And as I've said, when you're riding a bike, it's not just about the destination-"

"I know," he interrupted to finish for me. "It's the journey."

I really hoped he'd understand that by the time we took off. There is something to riding a bike and being one with your surroundings. Dad got it, he taught it to me, and I really hoped I could show it to Dean.

.

Our last "Practice" trip was to Lake Michigan. I know, it's hard to live almost anywhere in this state and not be close to Lake Michigan and I could have taken him on a twenty minute drive and we'd be at the beach, but this time we rolled two and a half hours, to one of those little coastal towns that still existed, And, if you were willing to take a long walk through protected forest lands, you could end up almost stumbling across Lake Michigan and areas that were practically deserted. There were much closer "public" beaches that were almost always crowded whenever it was warm, and often even when it wasn't.

But we did the woods hiking thing, and he never questioned where I was taking him, until we climbed up a small hill, and then it was like the forest gave way to the beach. Not a slow give away, where trees got smaller and smaller, this was like forest with tall pines that just stopped where the sand began. He still didn't ask why we'd come here, but I think he understood.

As we walked through the curtain of trees into the bright sunlight, he said nothing, but he stopped and took off his boots. He had a pair of motorcycle boots I'd insisted he buy, and he'd worn them most of the time while he was with me to break them in. But now he took them off, stuffing his socks inside of them and let his toes sink into the pure, white sand, warmed by the sunshine.

There were a couple logs nearby, bleached white like driftwood, worn smooth by weather, and probably the butts of thousands of people who did divert from the path and find this little bit of paradise. I took off my own boots and socks and we put our footwear by one of the silver logs. There was a hill of white sand after the trees, with that hearty beach grass on it. It lead down to the water, but we both sat at the top and looked down over the water.

You have to live near, or have visited the great lakes to really have an idea of how big they are. I've had folks from Cape Cod or other places on the East shore who have told me that there is no way Lake Michigan can be anything like the ocean. Until they see it. When you're one person on the shores, you realize how damned big it is, and it's not even the biggest one. It's a fresh water ocean for all intents and purposes and when the winds came, just like the ocean, the waves get bigger and bigger, depending on the severity of the winds.

Today it was windy, but a calm type of windy, and the waves curled on the beach, tame little curls, washing rocks on the shore. Probably a bunch of Petoskey stones, but, unless Dean wanted to go stone hunting, I wasn't going to mention it. I figured he didn't even know what they were. They're a type of coral fossil that as far as I know, is only found in Michigan.

We sat on the beach together, both of us watching the waves. Neither of us spoke. We weren't sitting on top of each other, but we were sitting close together, toes buried in the sand. I realized soon enough we were breathing in unison.

And we sat there like that for three hours. Three hours where I didn't think about the past or the future, and I don't think he did either. Three hours where we lived entirely in the moment. Three hours where we barely moved, we just existed.

We might have sat there longer, but we'd taken over two hours to get here, a good hour or more hiking through the woods to get to this spot, then three hours sitting, and breakfast seemed like a long time ago. It was pure hunger that drove us up on our feet, as my stomach gurgled.

"What just happened there?" he asked me, once we were back on the wooded trail, headed to our bikes so we could drive into town and find someplace to eat.

"We just _were,_" I said. "Some folks say it's meditation and maybe it is, but my dad liked to call them moments of gold, or just golden moments. Moments when you aren't worried about anything, moments where you aren't your past or your future, you're just you. All the crap that has been going down in your life, all the crap that _will _go down in your life doesn't matter, because you are fully immersed in the now."

"I would dismiss that as some new age bullshit," Dean said his brows furrowed, I think because he was rolling all of this in his mind, "If I hadn't felt it for myself. Can that happen when you ride? And if it can, is it _safe?"_

"If you've been riding long enough to feel comfortable, then yeah, it can," I said. "And if you're comfortable and good, it won't take you out of what's happening, if anything you'll be more aware of it. I think being in the moment makes you a much better driver, because all your attention is focused on what's happening. If you haven't gotten there yet, you will. I've told you the most important thing you can do for yourself when you ride, is to ride. Let it all go and be one with the bike, one with the road."

"I think I'm getting close," he said. "But I'm not quite there yet."

"You will be," I said. "If I had to bet, I'd say before the trip ended, if not sooner."

As I was speaking, another of the many black, swallowtail butterflies I was getting awful used to seeing started fluttering around me. There weren't a lot of wildflowers in this part of the woods, mostly pine trees, so I was a little surprised it was here. Maybe it was lost and looking for us to lead it out of here. When it fluttered onto my shoulder and let me walk with it perched there, as if it were trying to do its best parrot imitation, Dean stared at it, then looked at me. "What _are_ you, some butterfly whisperer?"

"What do you mean?" I asked, although I was pretty sure I knew what he meant.

"You and butterflies." He shook his head. "I didn't catch it at first, but later, when I first saw you, when you came running into the garage, scaring the crap out of security, I remembered there was a butterfly hanging about behind you, but keeping up and you were _running_. I mean, they were hustling me out of there so fast, I didn't really have time to think about stuff, but Roman mentioned it too, later. 'The kid had a butterfly flying around him,' That's when I remembered that yeah, you did. I forgot about it, but since I've been here, I've noticed it, almost every time we go outside, or anyplace we go where we're outside for more than five minutes, one of those black butterflies finds you. I've hardly ever seen a black butterfly before you, and now that's the only type of butterfly I see. So, what is it? Do you naturally secrete some type of butterfly pheromone or something?"

I shrugged. "Did you know that there are a lot of religions and cultures that believe butterflies are the souls of departed loved ones? That they visit us as butterflies."

He frowned. "I might have heard that before, it does sound vaguely familiar. It also sounds like bullshit." Then he shrugged. "No offense if I just crapped on one of your sacred beliefs."

I grinned, noting the butterfly moving over and fluttering by him, not so close he felt he had to swat at it, but close enough that the two of them could be seen as being together. "No, it's okay," I said. "I pretty much agree with you, it's superstitious nonsense. Except that I never had butterflies hanging out with me until my father died. Well, maybe as a kid a few came near me, but nothing unusual. But I had my first black swallowtail hang with me when I was on my road trip to give you the bike. And ever since then, black swallowtail butterflies seem to find me."

"Do you think it's the same butterfly?" Dean asked, head tipped slightly to one side.

The current subject of our discussion decided to rest on the baseball cap he was wearing and I decided _not _to tell Dean about it. "If it is, it might win a record for longevity. The average life expectancy is ten to twelve days, although there have been some, kept in captivity, recorded to live 35-40 days."

"Did you know all this before you became Lord of the Butterflies?"

I laughed at the name. "No, I admit, when I started realizing they were hanging with me all the time, I did some research on the net. I think I was first trying to see if something had happened recently that caused their numbers to swell significantly and that's why I kept seeing them. But, nothing to indicate that."

He nodded and the butterfly lifted off his baseball cap and came fluttering over to me. "Do you think your dad is coming back as butterflies, just to say hello?"

I shrugged, and held out one finger, which the butterfly lighted on immediately and stretched out its wings as if it were a solar powered creature, getting a recharge. "All logic tells me this is bullshit. But another part of me has to wonder. I mean, Sherlock Holmes said, 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' And, like I said, butterflies never seemed to be attracted to me until my father died and I was on my way to accomplish his dying request, to get his bike to you. So, you tell me, bro, what's the impossible I might have overlooked?"

He shook his head. "I'm not even going to_ try_ to answer that. But, let's say it is our dad, and he wanted to make sure you fulfilled his dying wish, you did that, why is Dad still stealing the souls of butterflies to check up on you?"

For a moment, I entertained a vision of a butterfly horror movie, where these poor, innocent butterflies were being forced out of their bodies, because the dead wanted them to visit their relatives. I smiled, but didn't laugh. "Maybe Dad wants to see both his sons together."

"That makes sense," he grudgingly admitted, still watching the butterfly, who seemed to have absorbed enough sunshine and had gone back to fluttering about. "Do you think you'll always be visited by Dad possessed butterflies? I mean, like, will you be explaining this to your great grandchildren or something? 'Yes, kids, that is your great, great grandfather. He likes to keep an eye on me.'"

Now I did laugh, openly. "Yeah, as if that won't get me a one way ticket into one of those places for folks with dementia. No, I don't think I'll always be surrounded by butterflies. _ If _it's true that these butterflies are my dad, mysteriously babysitting me from beyond, then I figure he's going to hang around until he feels I'm set. How or what I have to do to accomplish that, I have no clue. But I just think Dad wants to make sure I'm all set in life somehow, then he'll stop using butterflies to spy on me and go enjoy his afterlife, such as it may be."

He studied me, and probably the butterfly too, because it was fluttering near me, I could sense it, even if I couldn't see it. "Man, I want you to meet Lance."

I had no idea what he was talking about and told him as much. I mean, I knew Lance was Roman's little brother, but why he wanted me to meet him so badly was beyond me.

"Lance is the agnostic in the house of the Roman Catholics," he explained. "His belief is when you die, you become energy dispersed into the universe. I wonder what he'd make of this butterfly theory?"

I shrugged. "I don't know, again, I'm not even sure if _I _believe it. But I also can't come up with another reasonable explanation. Maybe when you die, you do become energy and it haunts butterflies or whatever it needs to in order to make sure your business is done, then disperses to become parts of everything?"

.

Two days after we sat on the beach together, then had our serious butterfly discussion, we left. The two days before, we'd gone through the bikes together so I could show him about how a bike worked, at least some basics and to make sure they were trip worthy. They were. I also talked to Janis, who was more than happy to house sit, saying she would come over the evening after we left.

The morning we left, we got up early, deciding we'd stop along the way to get breakfast. I think both of us were eager to hit the open road.

Dad's bike had Bluetooth speakers, one of the last things he'd put on it before he died. The last gift I ever gave Dad was an Ipod, which we loaded with a bunch of my dad's favorite music. It was an extensive list. I asked Dean if he wanted to put his own music on it, to enjoy on the ride, but he told me that if he felt confident enough to ride with music, he wanted to listen to my dad's music, at least for this trip.

I knew he was a good enough rider and familiar enough with the roads right around here so we could start with music and with his permission, I cued up the Ipod and got on my bike. Engines idling, I nodded and he hit the "play" button, a few seconds later a gravelly voice that felt as familiar to me as the voice of my own father began singing:

_Took a look down a westbound road. Right away I made my choice_

I nodded to Dean, he nodded back. Taking one last time to make sure our helmets were on securely, that our gear was packed properly, our gloves on, together, we took the bikes off their stands. Maybe we were going Southbound instead of West, but the sentiment was the same and that was the song my dad always played whenever he started a road trip. It was the song I played when I rode to bring the bike to Dean.

We left the yard and started eating the pavement as the chorus began to play:

_Roll, roll me away, Won't you roll me away tonight?_

The End

* * *

**Author's Notes:** Lyrics are from the song _Roll Me Away_, Written and performed by Bob Seger. I did some internet research and the tiny bits of the song I included here are legal. I know FFnet does not like people to use song lyrics, but there is barely any of the song here.

I am working on a sequel to this, which I think will be shorter, but cover the road trip. If I can keep up the drive to write this, I'd like to do another story after that, which shows Creed in West Virginia, dealing with his newly met extended family.

Thank you to all of you who read this. Thanks more to anyone who followed/favored it, and even more if you took the time to review it. I really appreciate it, and I hope I'll be seeing you when I start publishing the sequel.


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